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THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

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THE 


CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD 


ROMANCE 


EDGAR    FAWCETT 

AUTHOR   OF   "AN   AMBITIOUS   WOMAN,"    "TINKLING   CYMBALS,"    "A  GENTLEMAN 

OF   LEISURE,"   "  SOCIAL   SILHOUETTES,"    "  THE   HOUSE 

AT   HIGH    BRIDGE,"    ETC. 


BOSTON 

TICKNOR     AND     COMPANY 
1887 


Copyright,  1886,  by  EDGAR  FAWCETT;  and  1887,  by 
TICKNOR  &  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


»L1CTROTTP»D  AHD  PRINTSD 

BY   RAND  AVBRY   COMPANY. 
B03TOIC. 


TO   MY  FRIEND, 

JULIAN   HAWTHORNE, 

IN  THE  HOPE  THAT  ONE  WHO  HAS  ALREADY  GIVEN  TO 
THE  WORLD  SO  MUCH  OP  BRILLIANT  IMAGINATION 

AND  UNIQUE  FANCY, 
MAY  FIND  AMID  THE  GLOOM  AND  TRAGEDY  OF 

THIS  TALE 

A  SLENDER  PARDON  FOR  ITS  EXISTENCE 

AND  A  FAINT  EXCUSE  FOR  ITS 

DEDICATION. 


2061732 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 


I. 


MORE  than  thirty  years  ago,  in  a  part  of  New- 
York  which  was  then  open  field  and  is  now 
densely-populated  city,  I,  Otho  Claud,  first  saw 
the  light.  My  home  was  a  square,  prim  cottage, 
guiltless  of  a  single  ornament.  From  its  rear 
doorway,  across  rolling  acres  clad  in  the  short 
verdure  which  is  a  sure  token  of  barren  or  neg 
lected  soil,  you  could  see  the  waters  of  the  Hud 
son,  sparkling  and  spacious.  Our  house  stood  in 
a  solitude ;  hundreds  of  yards  lay  between  our 
selves  and  the  nearest  neighbor.  To  the  north 
ward  rose  masses  of  that  abundant  native  rock 
whose  bulky  and  rigid  recurrences  form  so  con 
tinual  a  feature  of  Manhattan  Island,  and  whose 
stolid  challenge  against  the  expanding  metropolis 
has  met  tardy  but  certain  defiance. 

Often  on  winter  nights  I  have  watched  that 
rocky  mass  from  the  window  of  my  little  bed 
chamber,  looming  black  and  jagged  against  the 

7 


8  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

brilliant  stars.  Child  as  I  was,  I  soon  realized 
it  to  be  overhung  with  the  doom  of  destruction. 
Slowly,  like  a  devouring  monster,  I  knew  that 
the  city  crept  every  year  closer  to  where  we 
dwelt.  So  many  of  us  look  for  romance  only 
in  the  age  of  a  great  town  —  in  its  hoary  cathe 
drals,  its  scholastic  universities,  its  feudal  towers. 
But  the  youth  of  a  city,  stretching  its  big,  strong 
limbs  like  an  awakening  giant,  carelessly  and  even 
lazily  levelling  a  forest,  quenching  a  stream  or 
crushing  a  hill,  has  in  this  gradual  birth  of  might 
and  prowess  a  sombre  romance  quite  its  own. 

I  think  that  my  early  childhood  must  have 
shaped  some  thought  like  this.  Each  new  year 
brought  the  sure  advance  closer.  And  it  was  the 
steadfast,  pitiless  march  of  a  foe.  Dull  booms 
from  blasting-works  began  to  reach  us  through 
the  more  temperate  seasons.  Every  spring  we 
heard  them  a  little  more  clearly.  I  knew  what 
they  meant ;  I  had  learned ;  I  was  now  eight 
years  old.  We  held  our  home  by  no  legal  right : 
we  were  mere  squatters  upon  an  unguarded  terri 
tory,  valueless  when  first  found,  but  now  gaining 
with  speed  in  worth  and  note.  Soon  we  must 
fare  to  other  quarters.  The  fiat  of  dismissal 
might  reach  us  to-morrow;  it  might  be  delayed 
for  many  morrows  yet. 

In  my  childish  way  I  had  grown  to  hate  the 
enlarging  city.  It  seemed  to  me  like  a  dark  and 
monstrous  threat.  I  traced  the  shadow  of  it  in 


TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  9 

my  parents'  faces.  It  made  me  fear  my  father 
more,  as  it  made  me  love  my  mother  more.  He 
was  a  German,  she  a  Frenchwoman.  Their  mar 
riage  had  been  a  hasty  and  stolen  one,  and  their 
voyage  to  America  almost  a  flight.  My  mother 
had  been  the  petted  daughter  of  a  wealthy  Breton 
bourgeois.  Leopold  Clauss  had  come  to  his  farm 
in  the  capacity  of  a  serving-man.  He  milked  the 
cows,  stalled  the  sheep,  tossed  the  hay.  My 
mother,  naturally  delicate,  had  been  most  gently 
reared.  Of  keen  intelligence,  she  had  richly 
profited  by  the  tutorship  of  an  old  erudite  priest, 
whom  her  father  held  in  devout  esteem.  She  was 
good,  beautiful,  obedient ;  there  had  been  some 
talk  of  giving  her  to  the  church.  For  her  to  look 
with  tenderness  upon  a  farm-servant  like  Leopold 
Clauss  would  have  been  deemed  something  abomi 
nable.  But  one  night  she  fled  with  him.  She 
loved  him,  and  she  fled  with  him. 

In  a  foreign  land,  beset  with  ills  of  want  and 
toil,  facing  a  wholly  new  and  often  bitter  mode 
of  existence,  she  remained  his  clinging,  uncom 
plaining  wife.  Nothing  could  alienate  her  affec 
tion.  I  have  seen  many  good  women  since  I  first 
recognized  her  goodness,  but  no  feminine  nature 
has  ever  touched  mine  with  just  the  same  chaste 
and  sweet  force. 

Memory  yields  to  me  her  image  now,  with  tints 
that  seem  to  live,  with  lines  that  hold  a  vital 
grace.  She  had  great,  dark,  shining  eyes,  that 


10  TIIE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

appeared  equally  to  express  a  controlled  melan 
choly  and  a  profound  patience.  Her  black  hair, 
of  a  charming  wave  and  gloss,  was  so  plenteous 
that  it  seemed  to  overburden  the  slim  support 
of  her  frail  white  throat.  Especially  when  she 
drooped  under  fatigue  I  would  observe  this  effect ; 
it  was  then  that  the  fragility  of  her  body  made 
her  resemble  some  plant  whose  crest  of  bloom  too 
heavily  weights  the  stem.  Her  brow  had  a  sort 
of  holy  arch,  and  the  curving  lashes  cast  a  faint 
little  shade  upon  her  pale  cheek.  She  was  devot 
edly  fond  of  me.  And  I,  if  I  had  been  more  like 
her,  should  probably  have  cared  for  her  less.  As 
it  was,  she  inspired  in  me  something  like  wonder. 
She  seemed  as  secure  above  all  the  baser  gusts  of 
passion  as  the  white  top  of  an  alp  is  above  ordi 
nary  tempest.  I  used  to  ask  myself,  after  I  grew 
older,  what  she  had  given  me,  if  she  had  given  me 
any  thing.  It  is  true  that  she  had  dropped  some 
sort  of  leaven  into  my  nature.  I  will  not  only 
grant  this  ;  I  will  assert  more.  By  heredity  I  had 
received  from  her  a  distinct  set  of  good  impulses, 
and  by  education  she  had  nurtured  these  into  firm 
if  not  hardy  growth.  The  heritage  from  my  father 
had  been  of  darker  and  sterner  stuff.  I  was  not 
to  know  in  full,  until  a  still  later  day,  of  the  evil 
flaws  which  he  had  transmitted  to  me. 

He  was  a  man  of  great  physical  beauty.  From 
my  earliest  recollection  he  had  cultivated  a  vege 
table-garden  lying  near  our  plain  abode,  and  I 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  11 

had  often  admiringly  watched  the  supple  move 
ments  of  his  commanding  frame,  the  fine  play  of 
his  massive  yet  just  limbs,  the  careless  gold  curls 
gleaming  from  the  rough  hat  which  surmounted  a 
face  of  chiselled  symmetry.  It  was  this  beauty 
that  had  won  my  mother's  headstrong  and  im 
politic  passion ;  perhaps  it  was  this  beauty  that 
now  kept  her  unfailingly  constant.  He  had  a 
light-blue  eye,  as  cold  as  steel,  as  expressionless  as 
ice.  I  always  shrank  from  that  eye  of  his ;  I  had 
seen  it  glitter  cruelly,  and  I  had  soon  in  a  vague 
yet  secure  way  determined  that  a  coarse  brain  lay 
behind  it,  a  hard  heart  below.  He  ignored  me  for 
six  good  days  in  the  week,  and  would  accept  me 
as  a  fact,  so  to  speak,  on  the  seventh.  But  it  was 
not  as  a  pleasant  fact ;  it  was,  on  the  contrary,  as 
a  mouth  to  feed,  a  form  to  clothe.  I  was  always 
in  dread  lest  he  should  strike  me  ;  I  had  seen  our 
neighbors  strike  their  children  and  send  them 
screaming  or  limping  into  the  squalid  huts  that 
were  their  dreary  homes.  But  though  sometimes 
harsh  of  order  and  epithet,  my  father  always  re 
frained  from  dealing  me  a  blow.  He  did  not  hate 
me  ;  he  did  not  in  any  sense  cherish  me.  He  was 
simply  indifferent  to  my  needs,  aims,  hopes,  joys 
or  ills.  He  completely  lacked  the  paternal  in 
stinct  ;  he  had  begotten  me,  and  there  was  an  end. 
Most  Germans  tenderly  love  their  children.  I  do 
not  know  that  I  should  call  him  brutal  for  not 
loving  me,  since  there  are  many  brutes  that  will 


12  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

face  death  for  their  offspring.  And  moreover, 
there  was  a  distinct  reason  that  such  a  strange 
man  as  he  should  regard  me  precisely  as  he  did. 
That  reason  was  the  lavish  affection  of  my  mother. 
I  think  that  if  I  had  been  anyone  except  her 
son  —  and  her  son  by  his  own  fatherhood  —  he 
would  never  have  forgiven  her  for  the  enduring 
worship  she  paid  me.  It  would  have  seemed  to 
him  intolerable  that  another  than  himself  could  so 
engross  her  thought,  her  life.  He  was  often  rude 
in  speech  to  her ;  he  would  show  her  by  act  and 
phrase  the  fret  and  hurt  of  his  struggles  against 
need  ;  lie  would  upbraid  and  reproach  and  satirize 
her ;  but  beneath  all  his  curt  or  even  savage  de 
portment  slept  for  her  an  immense  and  fervent 
fondness.  I  have  seen  his  cold  eye  melt  as  it  met 
hers ;  I  have  seen  his  big,  shapely  frame  tremble 
as  he  took  her  own  slight  one  in  his  embrace. 
Here  he  was  indeed  brutal,  for  he  loved  as  a  brute 
may  love,  and  he  compassed  the  object  of  his  idol 
atry  with  a  rampart  of  suspicious  hates.  This  in 
cessant  and  alert  jealousy  was  an  experience  that 
had  for  me  no  real  beginning ;  its  stormy  horizon 
dipped  into  the  haze  of  infancy  ;  I  could  never 
remember  any  time  when  my  father  had  not  had  a 
grudge  against  somebody  or  something  because  of 
too  much  regard  for  his  wife.  The  bounds  of  mad 
ness  are  hard  to  draw;  human  nature  forever 
stalks  abroad  with  greeds  and  prejudices  that  if 
colored  a  trifle  more  vividly  would  tempt  the  cell 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  13 

and  the  chain.  I  believe  that  my  father,  in  this 
one  headlong  and  insensate  trait  of  his,  was  irre 
sponsibly  mad ;  and  the  pages  which  I  now  mean 
to  write  shall  most  pitiably  have  missed  their  pur 
port  if  I  do  not  win  some  few  converts  to  my 
sombre  theory.  I  have  known  him  to  kill  a  poor 
outcast  dog  because  my  mother  had  not  only  given 
it  shelter  and  succor  but  an  occasional  caress  as 
well.  I  have  known  him  to  fling  a  pot  of  mignon 
ette  from  the  sill  of  her  bedroom  window  because 
she  watered  and  tended  it  too  zealously.  He  sent 
adrift  more  than  one  serving-girl  because  the  scant 
wages  they  got  from  his  own  light  earnings  left 
them  still  eager  and  active  to  fulfil  their  loved 
mistress's  least  command.  It  was  like  grudging  a 
lily  the  odor  she  gave  to  air,  and  yet  he  bore 
grudges  just  as  wild  and  vain  as  this.  Moods  of 
rage,  it  is  true,  roused  them,  but  their  betrayal 
was  volcanic  only  because  the  soil  itself  held 
malign  heat.  For  days  and  weeks  he  would  be 
tractable  enough  in  his  demeanor  toward  his  wife. 
Then  the  flame  would  leap,  the  bolt  would  fall. 
For  all  men  who  looked  on  her  with  a  gaze  of 
more  than  careless  heed  (and  it  was  so  hard  for 
anyone  to  look  on  that  pale,  lovable,  starry-eyed 
face  indifferently  !)  he  would  hoard  severe  rancor. 
My  mother  had  no  friends  of  either  sex.  Our 
lonely  dwelling-place  forbade  intercourse  and  com 
panionship  among  her  equals,  and  the  men  and 
women  whom  she  sometimes  met  were  of  a  low  and 


14  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

common  type.  But  she  was  forced,  in  my  father's 
presence,  to  regard  no  man  except  with  studied 
coldness.  The  insult  of  his  vigilance  must  have 
pierced  her.  I  marvel,  now,  that  it  did  not  alien 
ate  her  love.  But  that  seemed  imperishable.  As 
I  flash  a  new  light  upon  her  acceptance  of  this 
outrageous  treatment,  I  find  myself  seeing  it  only 
in  the  hues  of  martyrdom.  It  was  nothing  less 
violent,  and  yet  she  endured  it  with  ideal  meek 
ness. 

If  any  excuse  of  a  sane  sort  can  be  accredited 
to  my  father's  action,  it  might  deserve  the  name 
of  morbid  irritation,  exasperation,  disappointment. 
He  had  expected  full  forgiveness,  in  time,  from 
his  rich  French  father-in-law.  He  had  written 
more  than  once  to  the  Breton  farm-house  after 
reaching  America  with  his  stolen  bride;  he  had 
made  my  mother  write  as  well.  Their  letters  had 
been  repentant,  respectful,  self-accusing,  even  sup 
plicatory.  But  the  result  had  all  been  one.  No 
answer  had  ever  reached  them.  The  French 
father-in-law  remained  obdurately  silent.  Perhaps 
this  silence  preyed  upon  my  father's  mind.  In 
sanity,  like  every  other  mortal  ailment,  has  its 
chief  goading  spur.  We  say  of  a  man  :  "  This  or 
that  caused  his  illness; "  or  of  a  madman  :  "  Such 
an  event  unseated  his  reason."  I  am  sure  that 
my  father  took  grievously  to  heart  his  kinsman's 
persistent  disdain.  It  ate  into  his  self-love,  which 
was  large,  and  stung  his  pride,  which  was  over- 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  15 

weening.  He  saw  his  place  in  the  new  world, 
whither  he  had  immigrated,  to  be  a  small  and 
mean  place.  His  vegetable-gardening  brought  him 
little  profit ;  his  lack  of  funds  for  use  in  that  sort 
of  investment  which  first  plants,  then  waits  and 
then  reaps,  was  one  long  ban  against  financial  ex 
ploit.  His  austere  nature  precluded  with  him  all 
gainful  intimacies  and  friendships.  He  could  never 
have  smoked  a  pipe  with  a  man  in  his  parlor  and 
strike  a  compact  for  mutual  advancement  through 
the  social  tobacco-fumes.  He  would  always  have 
been  thinking  of  my  mother  in  the  next  chamber, 
and  wondering  if  any  aid  proffered  him  were  not 
the  fruit  of  a  seed  which  her  fair  face  had  sown. 

I  know  that  I  describe  the  self-torment  of  an 
exceptionally  gloomy  soul.  But  such  chronicling 
will  have  its  dark  autobiographical  uses  hereafter, 
and  for  this  reason  I  must  not  and  shall  not  spare 
a  single  black  line.  He  who  has  set  himself  to 
paint  with  shadow  should  not  shrink  through  fear 
of  too  grim  a  picture.  The  pathos  of  our  situa 
tion,  just  as  my  ninth  year  crept  toward  a  tenth, 
was  indeed  woful.  A  winter  of  unwonted  rigor 
had  yielded  to  a  spring  of  chill  rains.  Warning 
had  reached  us  that  in  a  month  we  must  go. 
Already  I  had  seen,  more  than  once,  groups  of 
men  on  the  huge  mass  of  rock  near  our  home. 
One  of  these  would  point  here  and  there  ;  he 
seemed  to  tell  the  others  of  plans  and  schemes  for 
future  action.  I  used  to  watch  him  in  dumb  fear. 


16  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

I  was  like  the  dweller  in  some  conquered  town, 
marking  the  movement  of  the  foe.  Once  he 
pointed  straight  at  the  panes  of  my  own  little 
casement.  It  was  almost  as  if  I  had  seen  him  aim 
an  arrow  there ;  I  sprang  back  and  hid  my  face. 
Once  again  the  same  man  pointed  to  my  father  in 
his  garden.  Work  had  been  quite  futile  that  day. 
The  rain  had  fallen  in  sheets  for  hours,  and  now 
under  a  blurred  sun  the  ground  lay  sodden  and 
viscous.  My  father's  head  was  drooped  ;  he  stared 
at  the  limp  green  lines  of  some  vernal  growth 
that  the  rain  had  spoiled  if  not  killed.  I  could 
see  a  scowl  on  his  face.  He  was  at  war  with  all 
the  world,  which  cared  no  more  about  his  being  at 
war  with  it  than  a  cyclone  cares  for  a  wherry. 
He  had  not  moral  strength  enough  to  put  his  own 
weakness  in  some  sort  of  defensive  state.  The 
blood  of  Teuton  peasants  ran  in  his  veins ;  he 
came  of  a  race  which  had  been  led  instead  of 
leading,  been  driven  instead  of  driving.  I  think 
an  old  inherited  torpor  bound  him,  in  his  present 
straits,  and  put  sullen  passivity  in  the  place  of 
brisk  self-help.  But  the  pity  of  his  position  was 
the  same.  They  were  going  to  blast  the  great 
rock,  and  to  crush  and  raze  his  fireside  under  the 
tumbling  fragments. 

I  saw  that  my  mother  was  suffering  much.  But 
a  restless  flicker  in  her  dark  eyes,  or  a  furtive 
tremor  of  her  delicate  lips,  alone  told  me  what 
pain  she  really  felt.  She  had  never  let  me  work 


TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  17 

at  my  father's  side  out  of  doors.  I  was  never 
very  strong  in  my  boyhood,  and  she  had  used 
every  care  to  make  me  robust.  She  gave  me  such 
continual  care,  indeed,  that  if  I  had  been  a  rose 
bush  instead  of  an  only  son,  my  father  would  long 
ago  have  flung  me  out  of  the  window.  And  now 
I  plainly  perceived  that  she  dreaded  absolute  pri 
vation  chiefly  on  my  account.  There  lay  her 
worst  grief  and  fear.  I  put  my  arms  about  her 
neck  one  morning.  I  searched  her  pale  face,  so 
beautiful  and  yet  so- sad.  There  are  some  faces 
that  seem  to  be  touched  by  the  shadow  of  vague 
future  calamity.  My  mother  had  such  a  face. 
When  this  tragic  hint  is  blent  with  beauty  the 
bearer  of  both  has  a  perilous  gift,  like  that  of 
Mary  Stuart,  who  wrecked  souls  with  a  smile. 

"  You  are  breaking  your  heart,"  I  said  to  her  in 
French.  We  always  spoke  together  in  French. 

"  Do  not  say  that,  Otho !  "  she  protested,  sur 
prised  and  trembling. 

"But  it  is  true,"  I  went  on.  "And  it  is  be 
cause  of  me  —  oh,  you  need  not  hide  ;  I  can  guess 
if  I  do  not  see  !" 

"  What  do  you  see,  my  son  ?  " 

"  That  you  are  very  unhappy." 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  mine.  "  Why  do  you 
say  that  it  is  because  of  you,  Otho  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  think  that  I  am  weak,"  I  said.  "  You 
think  that  if  sharp  poverty  comes  on  us  I  will  not 
have  enough  to  eat.  You  do  not  fear  for  yourself. 


18  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

You  do  not  fear  for  papa.  You  are  always  tor 
menting  yourself  about  me." 

She  clasped  me  closer  before  I  had  ended,  and 
for  a  moment  her  head  fell  upon  my  shoulder.  I 
believed  that  she  wept ;  but  presently  she  lifted 
her  head,  and  the  composure  of  her  voice  almost 
startled  me. 

"  No,  Otho.  I  tell  you  no  !  I  do  not  think 
you  weak.  You  have  grown  to  be  a  great  boy ; 
you  are  strong.  If  anything  happens  "... 

"  If  anything  happens,"  I  broke  in,  "  you  may 
trust  me  to  work  !  " 

She  kissed  me  and  put  me  away  from  her.  That 
night  my  father  came  in  later  than  usual.  It  was 
never  his  custom  to  drink.  But  as  I  lay  in  my 
bed  and  failed  to  sleep,  I  heard  his  voice  sound 
thick  and  unfamiliar  while  he  addressed  my  mother. 

"  So  you  are  still  up  ?  "  I  heard  him  say. 

"  Yes,  Leopold." 

"  Why  did  you  stay  up  ?  " 

"  I  waited  for  you." 

There  came  a  low,  bitter  laugh.  "  Has  the  boy 
gone  nicely  to  sleep  ?  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Leopold.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  pet  him  so ! "  My  father  spoke  in 
German,  which  I  understood  perfectly.  "You 
should  not  have  hugged  him  so  close.  What  will 
become  of  him  now?  He  cannot  do  anything 
but  starve.  We  have  all  three  got  to  starve.  It 
is  coming  to  that." 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  19 

I  heard  a  long,  soft  sigh.  I  knew  that  ray 
mother  gave  it.  That  was  the  end  of  my  pardon 
able  eavesdropping.  But  I  lay  awake  for  a  long 
time,  thinking  how  she  lay  awake  also.  I  hated 
my  own  boyish  weakness  while  I  let  the  thick 
dark  of  the  room  meet  and  weigh  upon  my  open 
lids.  I  wanted  so  much  to  be  strong,  and  fight 
the  vast  city  that  was  thrusting  us  toward  ruin. 
We  must  go.  But  where  ?  Would  men  come 
and  thrust  us  out  of  doors  ?  Must  we  be  beg 
gars,  like  those  I  had  seen  often  ?  Must  we  stake 
our  daily  chance  of  life  on  a  stray  bit  of  bread  ? 
Shame  thrilled  me  as  I  thought  of  my  feeble 
thews  and  childish  limbs.  I  yearned  to  help  my 
mother,  yet  even  while  I  so  yearned  a  desire  came 
upon  me  to  steal  toward  her  and  be  comforted. 

The  next  day  it  rained  again  through  half  the 
morning.  My  father  went  away.  My  mother  set 
me  my  lesson,  just  as  usual,  but  I  could  not  study 
it;  my  thoughts  were  elsewhere.  Twice,  thrice, 
she  chid  me  and  even  spoke  of  punishment  if  I 
should  leave  my  task  unlearned.  I  shut  myself 
in  my  room  a  little  later,  and  strove  to  fix  atten 
tion  on  the  two  or  three  books  which  meant  work. 
But  presently  I  heard  voices,  and  went  downstairs 
into  our  little  parlor. 

My  mother  did  not  notice  me  as  I  softly  pushed 
the  door  aside.  A  man  was  sitting  quite  near 
her,  but  she  stood.  There  was  a  pink  flush  in  her 
cheeks,  and  I  knew  quickly  that  she  was  not  her 


20  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

accustomed  gentle  self.  The  man  was  he  whom  I 
had  once  seen  point  to  the  window  of  my  little 
bedchamber.  He  wore  clothes  that  were  neat 
and  smart ;  his  face  was  feminine  of  outline,  and 
he  had  a  pair  of  cloudy  auburn  whiskers.  He 
was  smiling,  and  in  an  eager,  vivid  way.  "  You 
know  that  I  don't  want  to  do  what  I  must  do, 
Mrs.  Clauss,"  I  heard  him  say.  "But  the  thing 
cannot  be  helped." 

"  My  husband  is  not  at  home,"  my  mother  re 
plied.  She  seemed  to  speak  as  if  she  forced  each 
word.  "  When  he  comes  I  will  tell  him  just  what 
you  have  said.  But  I  must  ask  you  to  go  now, 
for  he  may  return  at  any  minute,  and  "... 

The  man  rose.  He  drew  near  my  mother.  He 
put  forth  a  hand,  and  his  smile  had  a  gleam  of 
bold  familiarity.  "  I've  heard  hard  things  of  your 
husband,"  he  said,  "  but  I  think  very  nice  things 
of  you.  No  one  could  see  you  and  not  do  so. 
I'm  a  plain  and  rather  blunt  fellow.  I  hope  you'll 
look  on  me,  whatever  happens,  as  your  friend." 

He  did  not  speak  at  all  like  a  plain  or  blunt 
fellow.  If  I  had  been  older  I  must  have  caught 
from  his  mien  and  accent  the  undertone  of  flat 
tery  in  both.  My  mother  did  not  take  his  hand. 
She  glanced  nervously  toward  the  doorway,  dis 
covered  that  I  had  entered,  and  beckoned  me  to 
her  side.  She  put  her  arms  about  my  neck,  a 
little  later,  and  held  me  thus  while  she  answered 
her  visitor. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  21 

"I  cannot  accept  your  friendship,  Monsieur, 
though  I  do  not  doubt  it  to  be  kindly  meant. 
There  are  certain  reasons  which  I  —  I  will  not 
explain.  It  is  best.  And  I  must  now  beg  of  you 
to  go,  yet  not  in  the  least  spirit  of  rudeness  or  ill- 
feeling  "... 

Her  voice  faltered  here ;  she  seemed  wretchedly 
embarrassed  and  perplexed.  The  stranger  gave 
a  light,  saucy  laugh.  "  You're  in  mortal  fear  of 
that  husband  of  yours,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  have 
heard  about  him.  He  is  a  jealous  tyrant.  He 
frowns  and  scolds  if  you  look  at  a  man  besides 
himself.  It's  abominable  for  such  a  lovely  crea 
ture  as  you  are  to  be  bound  to  such  a  master. 
They  say  that  he  is  half  crazy.  That  handsome 
boy  should  have  a  start  in  the  world  when  he  gets 
a  little  older.  His  face  is  like  a  picture  —  and  so  is 
your  own.  You  shouldn't  throw  by  a  real  chance 
of  help.  I  could  see  that  you  and  the  boy  were 
safely  cared  for,  and  not  dragged  down  into  the 
slums  and  gutters.  Your  husband  hasn't  a  friend ; 
nobody  will  give  him  a  bit  of  help ;  he's  turned 
everybody  against  him  by  his  bad,  surly  nature. 
If  you  don't  listen  to  me  now  you  will  be  sorry 
afterward.  The  house  must  go,  and  you  with  it. 
I  can  put  you  both,  for  a  little  while,  where  he 
can't  find  you,  and  perhaps  get  you  decent  means 
of  support.  As  I  said,  you  had  better  listen  to 
me,  and  "  — 

"  I   shall    not    listen    to    you ! "   broke   in   my 


22  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

mother.  She  drew  me  away  with  her  as  she 
spoke.  When  we  had  reached  the  threshold  of 
the  door,  she  added,  in  a  voice  full  of  frightened 
pleading : 

"  Oh,  I  pray  of  you  to  go  !  I  will  stay  with  my 
husband  always !  I  wish  never  to  leave  him.  No 
matter  how  he  treats  me  —  no  matter  what  people 
say  of  him.  I  shall  accept  no  help  that  he  does 
not  give  me.  And  it  shall  be  the  same  with  my 
little  boy  here.  Go,  now,  Monsieur,  if  you  have 
any  pity  in  your  heart ! " 

She  had  receded  into  the  hall,  still  closely  clasp 
ing  me.  He  followed,  a  moment  later,  and  stood 
watching  us,  with  one  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
outer  door,  as  though  it  were  his  intent  very  soon 
to  depart.  I  thought  his  face  had  altered  to  a 
much  graver  look ;  and  his  tones  were  quite  seri 
ous  as  he  said : 

"  I  have  a  great  deal  of  pity  in  my  heart,  and 
I  think  it  a  shame  that  you  and  the  child  should 
suffer  as  you  will.  But,  of  course,  you  make  it 
impossible  for  me  to  give  you  aid.  The  house 
must  be  vacated  in  two  days.  The  owners  of 
this  property  have  sent  me  their  positive  orders. 
.  .  .  Good  morning." 

He  passed  out  of  the  house,  and  I  was  glad  for 
my  mother's  sake  that  he  had  gone.  I  dare  say 
that  she  had  inspired  a  distinct  sentiment  in  him  ; 
but  very  possibly  he  had  meant  to  give  this  only 
an  honorable  expression.  Still,  though  it  is  easy 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  23 

enough  to  feel  compassion  for  one  we  love,  unself 
ish  compassion  is  another  affair.  So  many  of  us 
stop  short  at  that. 

My  father  re-appeared  about  an  hour  afterward. 
The  instant  I  saw  his  face  I  knew  that  something 
had  happened.  He  threw  himself  into  a  chair, 
without  a  glance  toward  my  mother.  She  quietly 
drew  near  him,  however.  "  Leopold,"  she  said,  in 
her  smooth,  sedate  voice,  "  it  will  be  best,  will  it 
not,  for  us  to  begin  packing  together  all  the  things 
we  wish  to  take?  Everything  here  is  our  own, 
you  know,  and  when  we  leave  "  — 

"  Who  told  you  we  were  to  leave  so  soon  ?  "  he 
interrupted,  turning  upon  her  most  suddenly. 
The  sharpness  of  his  voice  made  me  start  and 
tingle,  as  though  I  had  felt  the  prick  of  a  knife. 
His  light-blue  eyes  gave  a  sort  of  livid  flash  as 
they  met  her  own  dark  ones.  But  he  still  held 
his  wrath  in,  whatever  its  cause. 

"Who  .  .  who  told  me?"  she  repeated,  stam- 
meringly. 

"  Yes,"  he  pursued.  "  /  did  not  say  that  we 
were  to  leave  just  yet.  Someone  else  has  told  you. 
Who  was  it?  Was  it  the  man  they  sent  here 
days  ago  to  prowl  about  and  give  directions?  You 
know  the  man  I  mean.  Has  he  been  here  to-day?" 

"  Yes,"  responded  my  mother,  "  he  has  been 
here  to-day." 

My  father  rose.  I  saw  his  nostril  quiver. 
"And  many  times  before,"  he  said,  under  his 


24  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

breath.  "  Many  times  when  I  did  not  suspect. 
Answer  me,  Gilberte,  is  this  not  true  ?  " 

"It  is  not  true,"  said  my  mother.  Her  mild 
eyes  never  flinched  as  she  fixed  them  upon  his. 

My  father  snatched  one  of  her  hands  and  held  it 
by  the  wrist,  scanning  her  face  in  its  pure,  spiritual 
candor  uplifted  to  his  own.  I  felt  my  heart  stand 
still  with  terror,  then.  It  was  almost  certain  to 
me  that  he  hurt  her  by  his  tense,  ruffianly  grasp, 
although  she  made  not  the  least  sign  of  pain. 

"  You  deny  that  he  has  been  here  many  times?  " 
he  cried.  "  And  yet,  but  a  few  minutes  ago,  an 
impish  young  child  of  those  people  on  the  rocks 
below  us,  danced  before  me  as  I  came  homeward, 
and  yelled  jibes  about  .  .  about  my  being  jealous, 
and  .  .  and  about  the  gentleman  with  the  yellow 
whiskers  visiting  my  wife." 

He  still  held  her  hand  as  he  thus  spoke,  but  he 
had  put  the  free  hand  toward  his  throat,  pressing 
down  his  collar  as  though  he  breathed  ill  and  this 
made  him  hoarse  of  speech.  My  mother  still 
looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "  That  is  no 
fault  of  mine,  Leopold,"  she  said.  "  You  have 
forced  people  into  jesting  at  your  continual  jeal 
ousy."  She  addressed  him  in  German,  as  she 
nearly  always  did,  and  the  less  dulcet  language, 
never  quite  glib  upon  her  lips,  gave  to  her  words 
an  unwonted  dignity.  "  I  cannot  help  it  if  your 
strange  distrust  of  me  has  made  us  both  the  sport 
of  our  neighbors." 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  25 

He  released  her  hand.  He  threw  back  his  fine 
head,  and  laughed  with  shrill  force.  Then  he 
fumbled  for  a  moment  almost  wildly  at  an  inner 
pocket,  soon  drawing  forth  a  paper,  which  he 
thrust  toward  her. 

"  You  say  truly,"  he  shouted,  "  that  we  are  the 
sport  of  our  neighbors.  But  who  has  made  us 
so  ?  Is  it  I  or  is  it  you  ?  Read  that !  Read  what 
I  found  stuck  among  my  garden-tools  here  at  this 
very  door !  Oh,  I  will  grant  you  that  the  writing 
is  very  rude  —  that  some  clod  has  done  it  —  that 
it  bears  no  name.  Yes,  I  will  grant  you  this. 
But  why  should  it  throw  blame  upon  you  for 
letting  that  man  into  this  house  in  all  kinds  of 
secret  ways,  if  you  have  been  quite  without  the 
fault  it  lays  to  your  door  ?  " 

My  mother  took  the  paper  and  read  it  while  he 
peered  at  her  drooped  visage.  Then,  after  a  little 
while,  she  crushed  it  in  one  hand  and  threw  it 
away.  She  was  looking  at  him  as  if  each  dark, 
liquid  eye  held  a  separate  soul  by  itself,  as  she 
said  :  "  Leopold,  it  is  a  lie.  I  swear  to  you  on  my 
honor  as  your  wife  that  it  is  a  lie !  Some  mali 
cious  trick  has  been  played  upon  you  by  those 
whom  you  have  made  your  enemies.  My  husband, 
you  do  believe  me  —  you  must  believe  me  !  " 

"  And  if  I  say  that  I  do  not  believe  you ! " 
he  cried,  threateningly,  while  he  drew  nearer  to 
her. 

She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  second  or  two.     Then, 


26  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

as  she  unclosed  them,  her  slender  figure  seemed  to 
rise  and  dilate  with  a  womanly  grandeur. 

"If  you  do  not  believe  me,"  she  murmured, 
"then  all  must  end  between  us.  I  have  borne 
much  from  you —  I  have  loved  you —  I  have  clung 
to  you  —  but  I  will  not  endure  this  !  " 

It  was  her  first  absolute  defiance.  It  seemed  to 
appall  and  rout  him  at  first.  Then  his  face  grew 
black  in  its  reckless  rage,  and  he  lifted  one 
clinched  hand. 

"  I  do  not  believe  you ! "  came  his  husky  answer. 
The  next  instant  he  called  her  a  terrible  name  — a 
name  whose  meaning  I  did  not  then  know  —  and 
struck  her.  It  w*as  a  blow  of  the  same  vile 
strength  as  the  gross  charge  that  shot  from  his 
lips.  She  fell  beneath  it.  There  was  a  cry,  but 
the  cry  was  mine  as  I  sprang  toward  her.  .  .  . 

Everything  seemed  to  dance  and  whirl  about 
me  for  many  seconds.  Then  I  knew  that  I  was 
kneeling  beside  her,  and  that  her  still,  white  face 
gave  no  sign  of  life,  with  the  heavy  glossy  hair 
framing  it.  We  were  alone.  He  had  gone.  I 
cried  passionately,  in  my  childish  French : 

"Maman!  maman!  es  tu  morte?  C'est  moi, 
cest  ton  Otho!  Dis-moi,  maman,  es  tu  morte?  II 
est  parti,  ce  cruel  papa,  I  Re"veilles-toi  et  rSponds  !  " 

Bat  she  did  not  speak  or  move  while  my  arms 
clasped  her  in  frantic  affright  and  grief. 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  27 


II. 


THE  blow  had  stunned  her,  and  no  more.  I 
rained  kisses  upon  her  face  as  I  saw  consciousness 
return  to  it.  I  forgot  the  outrage  from  which  she 
had  suffered,  in  my  delight  that  she  was  still  alive. 
She  was  at  first  very  weak  and  shaken.  Even 
after  she  had  gained  a  lounge  and  sunk  upon  it, 
speech  was  for  quite  a  while  nearly  impossible. 
Then  by  degrees  both  calm  and  strength  returned 
to  her.  She  made  me  kneel  at  her  side  and  hold 
her  hand  while  she  said:  "Otho,  my  son,  you 
must  never  speak  a  word  of  what  you  saw  pass. 
Mamma  and  you  must  go  away  together,  now. 
We  must  go  without  .  .  papa.  He  must  not 
know  when  we  leave,  and  we  shall  leave  him 
forever." 

"  I  am  glad,"  I  said.  "  I  want  never  to  see  him 
again.  He  struck  you.  It  was  a  great  sin,  be 
cause  you  are  so  good.  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

She  leaned  her  lips  to  mine  and  kissed  them. 
"  Be  sure  that  you  never  do  forget  it,"  she  mur 
mured,  with  an  emphasis  that  I  did  not  then 
dream  of  understanding.  (How  I  was  fated  to 
understand  hereafter ! ) 


28  TIIE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

"Shall  we  go  soon,  mamma?"  I  questioned. 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  little  time  ;  she  seemed 
to  reflect.  "  We  will  go,  my  dear,"  she  presently 
told  me,  "as  soon  as  there  is  any  chance  of  our 
going  un watched.  Otho,  you  are  a  clever  boy  — 
clever  beyond  your  age.  You  are  still  not  ten 
years  old  and  yet  you  can  quite  grasp  my  mean 
ing,  I  am  sure.  Your  father  will  come  back ;  he 
will  come  back  to  repent,  to  beg  my  pardon,  to 
kneel  before  me  and  call  himself  all  kinds  of 
bitter  names.  But  that  must  not  be,  Otho.  It  is 
not  because  my  heart  is  hardened  against  him  ; 
it  is  not  because  I  do  not  already  forgive  him 
what  he  has  done.  It  is  because  I  fear,  for  his 
own  sake,  what  he  may  do  hereafter.  That  is  why 
we  must  go  together,  and  very  secretly.  I  have 
a  little  money  saved ;  it  is  but  a  few  dollars,  and 
yet  it  can  help  us  till  we  find  Martha." 

"Martha!"  I  exclaimed,  not  without  a  sudden 
joy.  "  Martha,  who  lived  with  us  when  I  was  a 
very  little  boy,  mamma,  and  who  was  always  so 
good  to  me,  and  .  .  and  "whom  papa  sent  away, 
one  day,  because  ?  "  — 

"Yes,  Martha,"  my  mother  interrupted.  "It 
is  the  same  Martha,  my  dear.  She  has  married 
since.  She  wrote  to  me  not  long  ago,  and  asked 
me  to  come  and  see  her  in  her  present  home. 
The  address  was  in  her  letter,  but  I  have  lost  it. 
Still,  I  remember  the  address  —  or  nearly.  It  is 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  Bowery." 


THE  CONFESSIONS    OF  CLAUD.  29 

"  The  Bowery  ?  "  I  repeated.  "  That  is  very  far 
away,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  No :  we  will  find  it.  It  is  eastward  from  here. 
I  —  I  have  seen  so  little  of  the  city  that  I  have 
lived  so  near  for  many  years !  But  we  will  find 
it,  as  I  tell  you.  .  .  And  now,  Otho,  you  must  aid 
me  to  .  .  to  avoid  papa."  My  mother  rose  from 
the  lounge  at  this  point.  She  seemed  wholly  her 
composed  self  again.  "  Listen,  my  child,"  she 
went  on,  standing  over  me  and  fixing  upon  my 
upturned  face  those  lovely  dark  eyes  whose  least 
change  I  knew  so  well.  "  When  we  go  it  must  be 
night.  If  it  were  not  night  he  .  .  he  might  trace 
us.  Others  might  see  us  or  follow  us  and  tell 
which  course  we  had  taken.  What  we  wish  to  do 
is  to  escape,  and  night  is  always  best  for  that. 
There  are  many  rugged  spots  in  the  country  here 
abouts.  If  we  could  once  get  free  of  this  house 
and  hide  somewhere,  Otho  —  no  matter  where,  so 
that  we  hide  unseen  till  night  has  come  !  You 
have  rambled  in  these  parts  far  more  than  I.  Do 
you  remember  any  place  ?  Try  to  think,  my  son." 

I  needed  to  think  only  a  moment.  "  The  great 
rock,"  I  said.  I  pointed  northward  to  it  as  I 
spoke.  Its  rough  density,  seen  clear  under  a  sky 
that  drifted  clouds  of  the  storm  had  left  blue  and 
limpid  as  amethyst,  gleamed  opaque  yet  keen  to 
us  through  a  near  uncurtained  window.  I  knew 
that  rock  so  well !  Why  should  I  not  know  if 
any  lair  or  fastness  of  the  sort  now  needed  were 


30  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

quarried  by  chance  in  its  crude  flanks?  I  did 
know  of  such  a  covert,  and  I  told  my  knowledge 
promptly,  with  a  florid  childish  pride. 

My  mother  listened.  She  gave  a  slow  nod  as 
she  heard.  She  bade  me  steal  to  the  outer  door 
and  watch  with  caution  for  any  sign  of  my 
father's  approach.  While  I  thus  kept  vigil  she 
was  to  make  all  swift  use  of  time  in  preparing 
our  flight. 

How  strange  and  novel  a  flight  it  was  !  This 
woman  still  loved  the  man  who  had  so  foully 
soiled  her  love.  And  yet  she  would  have  put  an 
ocean,  a  continent,  between  herself  and  him,  be 
cause  fearful  lest  her  presence  in  his  life  might 
urge  him  toward  crime.  Other  women  fly  from 
men  they  hate :  she  fled  from  one  whom  all  the 
powers  of  darkness,  dismally  allied,  could  neither 
estrange  nor  repel.  It  was  for  his  sake  alone 
that  she  left  him ;  she  would  have  borne  tenfold 
worse  blows  than  that  he  had  dealt  her;  she 
would  have  hungered  with  him,  starved  with  him, 
begged  for  him  ;  no  smile  in  all  the  world  would 
have  been  so  dear  to  her  as  his  harshest  frown  ; 
to  serve  him  and  be  spurned  by  him  was  pleasure 
compared  with  never  to  find  him  at  her  side. 
And  yet,  in  horror  of  what  harm  he  might  wreak 
upon  himself  through  the  madness  with  which 
she  saw  him  cursed,  she  had  resolved  to  divide 
her  life  from  his  perpetually.  Child  as  I  was 
then,  I  felt  the  sublimity  of  her  abandonment. 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  31 

Man  that  I  afterward  grew,  I  confirmed  and  re 
vered  it. 

While  crouched  half  in  ambush  on  the  small 
porch  of  our  dwelling,  I  soon  became  sure  that 
the  intended  exit  would  pass  unespied.  The  hour 
was  now  verging  toward  late  afternoon.  East 
ward  the  spent  storm  lay  in  one  long,  low  bank  of 
spongy  drab.  Across  the  glittering  river  spring 
had  touched  a  tract  of  woodland  with  vapory 
green,  so  ethereal  of  tint  that  it  seemed  like  only 
the  airy  soul  of  a  color.  Cumbrous  wharves  and 
gaunt  warehouses  had  not  yet  made  Jersey  City 
their  undisputed  prey ;  being  still  a  village,  or 
very  like  one,  she  had  a  few  sylvan  chances  with 
the  turning  year.  Our  side  of  the  river  held  a 
more  suburban  rank,  for  piles  of  lumber  and  bales 
of  merchandise  lay  frequent  along  its  uncouth 
landing-places,  in  that  commercial  scorn  of  all 
riparian  grace  and  charm  which  has  dwelt  with 
New- York  at  every  stage  of  her  growth.  But  the 
stretches  of  moist  and  twinkling  green  farther  in 
land  were  as  yet  a  choice  spoil  that  waited  seizure. 
With  the  prongs  of  rock  to  pierce  their  turfy  sward 
and  make  intervals  of  tender  undulation,  they 
were  rich  in  pastoral  effect ;  and  one  or  two  nib 
bling  goats  (those  placid  prowlers  about  so  many 
of  our  city  environs)  lent  their  shaggy  shapes  to 
deepen  the  forlorn  sort  of  picturesqueness.  Below 
a  fall  in  the  land  rose  rocks  on  which  many 
wretched  paupers  had  reared  pitiful  huts.  Our 


32  TUE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

home  was  almost  of  palatial  comfort  beside  these. 
Some  of  them  were  shapeless  blendings  of  ancient 
boards,  as  if  nailed  together  in  random  desperation 
of  refuge  by  their  outcast  tenants.  Others  had  a 
more  decent  contour,  with  a  space  of  creditable 
courtyard.  But  all  were  huddled  and  massed  in 
woful  disarray.  Perched  on  successive  acclivities, 
they  stared  at  the  passer  beneath  them  as  though 
they  were  the  last  miserable  haunts  of  those  whom 
the  near  city  had  denied  all  honest  shelter.  Later, 
when  foreign  immigration  flooded  the  island,  they 
became  still  more  numerous  ;  but  even  then  their 
squalid  and  grizzly  fellowships  were  hard  to  miss. 
The  scum  and  riffraff  of  humanity  clung  there. 
The  stone  that  underlay  their  zigzag  walls  and 
precarious  roofs  could  brace  both  against  over 
throw  when  blasts  drove.  Their  inmates  were 
used  to  the  nip  of  frost  and  the  chill  of  ruin. 
Like  new  Noahs  they  had  fled  hither  to  these  bare 
heights  from  the  deluge  of  civilization  beyond. 
And  alas,  each  Noah  had  borne  with  him  his 
family,  as  in  the  tale  of  old !  You  saw  mothers 
there,  suckling  young  infants  in  the  sun  on  clear 
days.  You  saw  frowzy  unkempt  children  descend 
the  wooden  stairs  that  led  below.  Some  of  these 
poor  waifs  had  spoken  to  me  and  sought  my  com 
pany  during  past  rambles.  But  I  always  gave 
them  cold  response  ;  it  was  my  parents'  charge,  and 
I  was  glad  enough  to  heed  it,  for  often  I  had  heard 
drunken  yells  from  those  grimy  dens  aloft,  and 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  33 

once  the  news  had  reached  us  of  a  sickening  mur 
der  done  at  night  there  by  a  man  wild  with  drink. 
From  these  bad  and  drear  quarters  had  come,  I 
am  certain,  all  our  present  ill.  The  boy  who  had 
shrieked  his  false,  evil  message  to  my  father  was 
one  of  their  lawless  tribe.  They  had  set  him  to 
deal  that  sting,  as  they  had  set  some  one  else  in 
their  sorry  group  who  could  wield  a  pen  to  write 
that  malignant  letter  which  my  father  had  found. 
They  hated  us  because  we  shrank  from  them ; 
they  hated  my  father  because  he  was  almost  one 
of  them  and  yet  scorned  their  rabble.  On  Sun 
days  they  would  meet  us  in  a  certain  grimy 
wooden  church,  where  the  service  was  droned  by 
an  old  asthmatic  priest,  the  attendance  was  meagre, 
and  the  benches  ascetically  hard.  Here  their 
scrutiny  would  be  torture  to  my  father,  and  they 
soon  got  to  understand  why.  His  jealousy  became 
a  source  of  great  secret  glee  to  them.  Perhaps 
their  amusement  might  have  transpired  more 
openly  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  father's  big 
frame  and  bold,  cool  eye.  As  it  was,  they  giggled, 
whispered,  and  slanted  meaning  looks.  They  no 
doubt  regarded  us  as  a  grotesque  threefold  joke. 
They  knew  we  were  "  squatters,"  like  themselves, 
on  territory  for  which  we  never  paid  a  dime.  Our 
reserve  would  possibly  have  hurt  them  more  if 
they  had  not  found  in  its  armor  what  they  deemed 
so  comic  a  crevice.  I  marvel  now  that  their 
mockery  took  no  other  form  than  it  did  —  the 


34  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

child's  elfin  jibe  and  the  ribaldry  of  that  nameless 
letter.  Perhaps  a  residue  of  respectful  dread 
vetoed  all  such  treatment  until  they  learned  that 
we  were  to  be  driven  away  while  their  own  exalted 
colony  remained  for  a  little  longer  unmolested. 
But  then  our  last  shred  of  superiority  had  been 
torn  from  us ;  misfortune,  that  most  merciless  of 
levellers,  had  made  our  cottage  in  the  vale  quite 
mentionable  beside  their  shanties  on  the  steep. 

For  some  reason  the  great  rock  close  to  our 
dwelling  had  not  yet  known  the  invader's  foot  or 
heard  his  hammer  ring.  As  I  now  looked  about 
me,  in  wary  quest  of  an  observer,  all  was  lonely 
and  silent.  If  you  listened  closely  you  could  hear 
a  vague  hum,  which  always  came  by  day  from  the 
adjacent  city,  and  which  was  its  way  of  living  and 
breathing.  Nearly  all  gigantic  things  breathe 
audibly. 

My  mother  soon  called  to  me  from  the  inner 
hall.  I  went  to  her  at  once.  She  looked  relieved 
when  I  bade  her  be  certain  that  the  coast  was 
clear.  She  was  clad  in  shawl  and  bonnet ;  she 
had  a  little  bundle,  which  held  a  few  trinkets  and 
souvenirs  of  her  past  life  in  France,  but  apart  from 
this  she  bore  nothing  that  could  prove  a  clog  or 
burden.  Her  hand  shook  a  little  as  she  clasped 
mine  with  it  and  went  out  of  the  house  at  my  side. 
We  were  about  to  face  so  vast  a  change  ;  no  won 
der  that  she  felt  distrustful  of  what  might  befall 
us  both.  And  yet  the  impulse  that  drove  her  on 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  35 

was  like  the  goad  of  fate  itself.  She  dared  not 
pause.  Her  conscience  spoke  to  her  with  the 
voice  of  her  love.  "  You  must  go,"  it  said,  and 
she  obeyed. 

A  few  steps  brought  us  to  our  proposed  hiding- 
place.  It  was  a  damp,  dark,  grewsome  cavity 
under  one  corner  of  the  great  rock.  It  was  just 
the  spot  for  a  roaming  child  like  myself  to  chance 
upon  and  prize.  Its  hollow  gloom  was  touched 
with  the  mystery  that  all  children  love.  I  had 
stolen  into  it  timidly ;  I  had  rushed  from  it  in 
dire  fear ;  I  had  returned  to  it  with  morbid  entice 
ment,  and  I  had  finally  accepted  its  existence 
with  a  sad  critical  disdain,  since  its  prosaic  inte 
rior  had  at  last  convinced  me  that  it  was  incapable 
of  producing  a  bear,  a  ghost,  or  even  a  mere  bat. 
I  had  long  ago  become  familiarly  and  contempt 
uously  intimate  with  it.  The  other  children  of 
the  neighborhood,  being  mostly  of  Irish  parentage, 
and  hence  packed  with  superstition,  would  enter 
it  rarely  and  then  but  for  brief  and  scared  so 
journs.  I  knew  that  the  risk  of  my  mother  and 
myself  being  now  disturbed  was  in  every  way 
slight.  We  passed  inside  for  perhaps  twenty 
yards,  and  then  paused.  The  dusk  was  at  first 
very  obscure,  but  in  a  little  while  it  seemed  to 
lessen,  and  we  saw  the  dark,  jagged  walls  and  the 
tawny  soil  with  tolerable  clearness.  All  this  time 
my  mother  had  held  my  hand.  We  had  crouched 
down  together.  Suddenly  I  felt  her  clasp  tight- 


36  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

en.  Where  daylight  gleamed  at  the  mouth  of 
the  cavern,  I  saw  a  human  shape.  It  had  just 
appeared  there,  and  it  moved  with  a  staggering 
pace  and  a  drooped  head.  The  next  minute,  how 
ever,  its  head  was  raised.  I  plainly  discerned  my 
father's  face. 

But  then  all  fear  of  immediate  detection  fled 
from  me.  The  face,  bathed  in  that  outer  light, 
was  full  of  a  lurid  and  fierce  pain,  which  had 
evidently  no  concern  with  our  discovery.  While 
I  gazed  from  the  shadowy  ambush  my  mother 
and  I  had  reached,  I  saw  him  knot  both  hands 
together  and  stare  down  at  the  ground.  The 
gesture,  the  attitude,  was  one  of  mental  misery. 

Abruptly,  a  second  time,  he  raised  his  head. 
Turning  full  toward  the  cavern,  he  gave  every 
sign  of  entering  it.  His  look  was  directed  straight 
toward  our  hold  of  refuge.  The  pressure  of  my 
mother's  hand  grew  still  more  •  tense.  My  own 
heart  stood  still.  I  believed  that  he  had  indeed 
seen  us,  and  was  about  to  confront  us. 

But  I  was  wrong.  He  had  doubtless  been  some 
where  near  us  as  we  slipped  into  the  retreat. 
But  he  had  not  seen  us  glide  past  its  threshold, 
and  as  his  eyes  swept  the  obscurity  in  which  we 
hid,  they  gave  no  trace  of  detective  intent.  But 
they  gave  trace  of  a  desperate,  remorseful  tur 
moil.  The  thought  of  having  injured  her  whom 
he  loved  with  such  an  ill-ordered  and  tyrannic 
passion,  was  stinging  him  into  keenest  repentance. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  37 

He  was  telling  himself  that,  after  all,  she  might 
have  been  wholly  guiltless.  The  force  of  his 
dreadful  jealousy  was  yielding  to  that  of  reason, 
of  rational  reflection.  His  lucid  interval  had 
come,  as  it  comes  with  nearly  all  madmen. 

He  moved  away.  I  breathed  again.  I  heard 
my  mother  give  a  low,  quivering  gasp.  I  turned 
and  kissed  her  in  the  dark.  Her  cheek,  as  I  did 
so,  was  cold  as  ice. 

But  my  father  had  gone.  He  had  known  noth 
ing  of  our  partial  escape.  Would  it  be  a-  com 
plete  one  ?  I  felt  new  fears  of  this  as  I  waited 
and  whispered  with  her,  longing  for  twilight  to 
come,  for  evening  to  deepen,  for  night  to  lend  us 
its  black  aid. 

And  night  at  length  did  so,  although  its  advent, 
in  all  my  brief  life,  had  never  yet  seemed  as 
loitering  as  now.  We  finally  emerged  from  the 
cavern,  still  hand  in  hand.  We  must  descend  the 
hill  and  pass  the  rocks  where  the  huts  clustered. 
There  was  no  other  course.  Westward  lay  dim 
slopes  which  might  trip  our  feet  into  the  very 
Hudson  itself.  Eastward  were  the  raw,  inchoate 
plans  of  streets  and  avenues  that  are  now  paved 
and  populous,  but  were  then  treacherous  with 
untold  pitfalls.  We  must  pass  cityward  by  a 
single  road,  and  that  skirted  the  hovel-crowned 
heights  which  we  were  fain  to  shun. 

But  with  hand  still  grasping  hand,  we  took  this 
compulsory  route.  As  we  left  the  cavern  we  seemed 


38  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

to  gain  air  that  was  almost  bright.  No  breeze 
moved,  and  a  }'ellow  mist  alone  told  of  the  sunken 
sun.  Stars  had  begun  to  beam  in  the  cloudless 
heaven ;  the  prongs  of  rock  rose  spectral  on  every 
side ;  we  saw  the  home  that  we  had  deserted ; 
a  light  shone  from  several  of  its  lower  windows. 

"  He  must  be  there,"  my  mother  whispered. 
A  stifled  sob  was  in  her  voice. 

"  If  he  is  there,"  I  said,  "  it  is  better.  Then 
he  will  not  see  us  and  cannot  follow  us." 

She  did  not  answer  me,  but  I  heard  her  sigh. 
I  think  her  love  was  tugging  at  her  heart  in  that 
moment.  She  wanted  to  go  back  to  him.  She 
wanted  to  give  him  another  chance  —  to  get  his 
kisses  of  penitence,  and  return  her  own  of  pardon. 
But  her  step  did  not  once  falter.  She  was  flying 
from  him  because  she  loved  him.  And  her  love 
nerved  and  steadied  her  as  she  hurried  onward 
at  my  side.  No  one  met  us  while  we  descended 
the  hill.  The  rocks  soon  loomed  on  either  hand. 
Lights  glowed  from  their  flat  summits.  We  heard 
a  loud  laugh  or  two,  and  again  we  heard  a  harsh, 
ireful  oath.  Life  there  was  at  its  usual  nocturnal 
ferment.  A  few  of  the  men  were  jovially  drunk, 
a  few  of  them  savagely  so.  And  now  a  thin 
scream  told  us  that  some  child  had  been  struck 
and  hurt.  As  a  boiling  liquid  will  throw  scum  to 
its  top,  so  the  rush  and  strife  of  this  augmenting 
city  had  cast  these  poor  lawless  and  mutinous 
folk  toward  its  barren  outskirts. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  39 

We  hastened  along.  In  a  little  while  we  had 
gained  a  region  where  flag-stones  met  our  tread, 
though  somewhat  brokenly,  and  street-lamps,  with 
wide  interspaces,  began  to  gleam  upon  our  sight. 
We  had  reached  the  town  itself,  and  were  pres 
ently  well  past  its  limits.  To  strike  westward 
into  the  Bowery  was  now  an  easy  feat.  I  should 
say  that  we  came  upon  it  by  the  approach  of  Bond 
or  Great  Jones  Street.  It  was  then  much  as  it  is 
now  in  point  of  ugliness,  but  its  shops  were  fewer 
and  its  private  dwellings  more  numerous.  We 
had  arrived  at  Canal  Street  before  my  mother, 
always  keeping  note  of  the  numbers  over  the  door 
ways,  told  me  that  she  was  nearly  sure  Martha 
lived  close  at  hand.  The  precise  number  had 
escaped  her,  but  it  was  certainly  not  far  off.  She 
stopped  before  a  gigantic  black-bearded  Jew,  who 
stood  at  the  entrance  of  a  little  tobacco-shop,  and 
asked  him  if  Mrs.  O'Hara  dwelt  near  by.  We 
were  evidently  in  luck.  The  Jew  took  a  pipe 
from  his  hirsute  lips  and  pointed  next  door. 

"O'Hara, "he  said,  with  an  urbane  smile  that 
put  little  creases  in  his  cheeks.  "I  s'pose  you 
meen  de  untertaker's,  ride  dare." 

"  Ride  dare,"  was  a  little  two-storied  abode.  In 
its  large  lower  window  loomed  a  huge,  solemn 
coffin. 

"  Martha  can't  live  here  !  "  I  said,  as  we  paused 
at  the  narrow  glass-door  quite  close  to  the  rigid, 
angular  box  which  no  child  of  my  then  age  can 


40  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

see  without  a  thrill  of  sombre  association.  I  re 
called  the  brawny,  buxom,  merry  Martha  of  earlier 
days.  She  always  had  a  laugh  and  a  jest  on  her 
ample,  ruddy  mouth.  It  seemed  impossible  to 
connect  her  vigorous,  mirthful  life  with  any 
custody  of  death  and  the  dead. 

"  Yes,"  my  mother  answered.  "  I  remember, 
now,  that  Martha  wrote  me  she  had  married  an 
undertaker.  This  must  be  the  place,  Otho.  At 
least  we  had  best  inquire  here.  It  would  be  al 
most  strange  if  we  had  not  found  her  now,  though 
I  shall  feel  thankful  indeed  if  we  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  find  her  so  soon." 

We  had  found  her.  Martha  herself  responded' 
to  our  summons.  She  threw  up  both  her  hands 
as  she  recognized  us,  in  jovial  amazement.  She 
was  not  a  bit  changed.  Her  sepulchral  sur 
roundings  had  not  left  her  touched  by  a  trace  of 
their  shadow.  She  drew  us  into  a  back  room,  and 
made  us  welcome  with  a  splendid  cordiality.  She 
possessed  the  sunny  Irish  nature  in  its  fullest  exu 
berance.  She  was  more  genially  alive  than  any 
man  or  woman  I  have  since  met.  She  hugged  me 
in  her  stout  arms  and  made  me  sit  on  her  strong 
knee  while  my  mother  told  her  all  that  had  passed. 
She  had  hated  my  father  honestly  and  frankly 
even  before  he  had  turned  her  simple  devotion  to 
his  wife  into  a  reason  for  driving  her  from  his 
house,  and  she  blamed  him  now  with  all  the  ardor 
of  which  her  explosive  brogue  was  capable. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  41 

"Shure,  ma'am,"  she  cried,  "I  knew  it  wud 
come  to  this  afore  you'd  finished  wid  'im.  Shure, 
the  loikes  o'  you  an'  the  loikes  o'  him  is  as  diff'rent 
as  a  rose  frum  a  cabbage.  If  I'd  been  there 
when  he  sthruck  yer,  ma'am,  he'd  a  felt  the  weight 
o'  this  hand,  bad  luck  to  'im  !  An'  the  dear  little 
Otho's  come  along  wid  ye !  Well,  God  bless  ye 
both !  Ye '11  have  bed  and  board  here  wid  me  fur 
manny  a  day,  so  ye  will.  Th'  ould  man,  as  I  call 
'im,  '11  be  back  soon.  *  He'll  be  glad  when  he  finds 
ye  here,  fur  he  knows  well,  ma'am,  how  I've  been 
pinin'  to  see  ye  both,  so  I  have !  An'  the  bishness 
is  payin'  furst  rate  jusht  at  present.  We  washn't 
doin'  very  much  till  about  a  month  ago,  but  now 
there's  a  shtroke  o '  fortune  come  to  us,  so  there  is, 
an'  the  vicinity's  got  koind  o'  unhealthy,  so's  we 
can  live  an'  save  a  little  as  well.  It's  three  good 
funerals,  ma'am,  that's  fallen  from  Heaven  upon 
us  this  very  week,  an'  we're  promished  another 
to-morrer,  fur  the  pawnbroker's  eldest  gurl,  across 
the  block,  ain't  expected  this  very  minnit !  "  .  .  . 

Martha's  husband  soon  appeared.  He  was  a 
gaunt,  bony  man,  with  a  great,  drooping  black 
mustache,  and  a  glassy  yet  benevolent  eye.  Martha 
rarely  permitted  him  to  finish  a  sentence.  She 
browbeat  him  at  every  turn,  mocked  him,  criticised 
him,  bewailed  him,  objected  to  him.  And  yet  he 
bore  all  her  effrontery  not  merely  with  resignation, 
but  seeming  pleasure.  He  accepted  her  sarcasms, 
her  sudden  assaults,  her  biting  personalities,  with- 


42  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

out  a  disapproving  murmur.  But  I  soon  saw  that 
Martha's  eye  alwaj's  had  a  sly  twinkle  in  it,  and  I 
soon  grew  sure  that  he  saw  the  twinkle  too,  and 
loved  her  for  it,  as  he  loved  her  for  every  other 
trait  or  mood,  whatever  she  was  and  whatever  any 
chance  might  make  her  become. 

I  got  to  be  very  fond  of  him.  During  the  next 
few  days  he  was  always  trying  to  tell  my  mother 
how  glad  he  felt  at  welcoming  his  wife's  old 
mistress.  He  would  begin  somewhat  in  this 
fashion,  with  his  haggard,  sallow  face  drawn  into 
painful  lines  of  premeditated  suavity  : 

"  Well,  ma'am,  it's  loike  seein'  the  face  of  an  old 
frind,  beggin'  your  pardon,  ma'am,  to  meet  the  lady 
that  Martha's  tole  me  about  so  often,  an'  praished 
as  wan  o'  the  shweetist  ladies  that  ever  "  — 

"  Be  off  wid  ye,  now ! "  Martha  would  roughly 
break  in,  at  perhaps  this  point  in  the  poor  fellow's 
gingerly  gallantry  of  phrase.  "  Shure,  d'ye  think 
Mrs.  Clorz  '11  put  up  wid  yer  blarney  as  I  did 
when  I  married  the  loikes  o'  yer?  It's  her  that'll 
see  through  ye,  sur,  as  if  it  was  glass  an'  not  brass 
that  ye're  made  of.  S'posin'  I  shud  tell  ye, 
ma'am  "  (and  here  Martha  would  set  a  hand  on 
each  hip  and  face  my  mother,  after  frowning  with 
an  awful  momentary  gloom  sideways  upon  her 
lord)  —  "  s'posin'  I  shud  tell  ye  some  o'  the  foine 
compleements  of  another  koind,  ma'am,  that  he's 
been  payin'  ye  behoind  yer  back,  an'  w'at  a  double- 
faced  rashcal  he  can  be  when  he  chooses  !  " 


TUE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  43 

O'Hara  would  shake  his  head  meekly  at  such 
dark  innuendoes  as  these,  and  it  was  not  long  be 
fore  my  mother  would  chide  Martha  with  a  reprov 
ing  smile  when  she  let  her  coltish  wit  kick  up  its 
heels  after  this  mettlesome  manner.  My  mother 
and  I  were  not  slow  to  recognize  into  what  good 
hands  we  had  fallen.  They  were  four  hands  in 
all,  and  two  were  plump  and  soft,  two  big  and 
horny.  I  think  I  got  to  love  O'Hara's  big  and 
horny  ones  a  little  the  best,  as  time  elapsed,  though 
I  still  preserved  my  old  allegiance  to  Martha. 
The  great,  grim,  sweet-natured  Irishman  loved  me 
in  return,  I  am  sure.  He  would  often  stroke  my 
hair  and  whisper  in  my  ear,  "  Plaise  God  to  send 
me,  some  day,  as  purty  a  boy  as  you,  mee  little 
man  !  "  And  I  might  have  been  some  rare  bit  of 
porcelain  for  the  way  in  which  he  treasured  and 
guarded  me.  I  have  spoken  of  his  hard,  large 
hands,  and  of  my  love  for  them.  This  is  literal 
truth,  for  I  would  often  nestle  my  own  within  one 
of  their  coarse  palms  and  follow  at  O'Hara's  side 
while  he  led  me  into  the  loud,  plebeian  street  near 
by,  and  thence  into  calmer  but  more  wretched 
haunts.  We  saw  many  strange  sights  together. 
He  seemed  convinced  of  my  untarnishable  purity ; 
I  was  like  a  pearl  to  him  that  one  could  drop  in 
mud  but  lift  again  and  unsoil  by  a  careless  brush. 
Like  many  of  his  race,  he  drank,  but  unlike  most 
he  never  drank  to  rash  excess.  I  have  stood  at 
his  side  in  dingy  liquor-stores  while  he  called  for  his 


44  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  mixt  ale  "  or  his  "  drop  o'  hot  Irish,"  but  though 
glowering  faces  might  be  near  me  and  bloodshot 
eyes  peering  at  me,  I  never  felt  a  qualm  of  dread. 
A  tough  biceps  was  not  far  from  those  solid  fingers 
that  my  own  frail  ones  could  seize  at  an  instant's 
notice. 

Spring  had  meanwhile  slipped  into  summer ; 
summer  had  ripened  to  autumn  ;  winter  had  come 
again.  I  had  seen  with  pleasure  that  we  were  no 
longer  dependent  for  bread  upon  the  O'Haras. 
My  mother,  by  nature  as  well  as  early  training, 
was  a  deft  needlewoman.  Martha,  with  ringers 
all  thumbs,  revered  her  skill,  and  told  tales  of  it 
among  the  neighbors,  in  which  eulogy  not  seldom 
borrowed  the  wings  of  fancy.  Most  fame  owes  its 
loudness  to  one  special  trumpet;  my  mother  was 
soon  approached  with  offers  in  the  way  of  dress 
making,  which  Martha,  sedate  as  any  grand 
chamberlain,  at  first  haughtily  rejected,  then 
promised  to  consider.  The  end  of  it  all  was  that 
she  threw  just  a  fabulous  enough  atmosphere  about 
her  favorite's  powers  to  raise  prospective  profits 
a  good  many  dollars.  Heaven  knows  what  arts  of 
lying  were  needed  to  accomplish  this  result.  But 
Martha  knew.  My  mother  made  gowns,  finally, 
for  the  resident  customers  who  sought  her,  and 
made  them  so  well  that  they  spread  her  praise 
abroad.  This  brought  us  an  income ;  shaping 
apparel  for  all  sorts  of  feminine  figures  at  a  lower 
price  than  could  elsewhere  be  secured,  soon  be- 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  45 

came  her  frequent  task.  But  other  work  claimed 
her  diligence.  She  sewed  shrouds  for  the  dead  as 
well  as  frocks  for  the  living. 

Shrouds  in  those  days  were  used  far  more  com 
monly  than  now.  I  shrank,  at  first,  from  seeing 
her  ply  this  uncanny  office.  There  was,  to  my 
young  thought,  a  kind  of  daring  in  it  —  a  rash  alli 
ance  with  that  cold  enemy  who  waits  for  us  all. 
Besides,  it  seemed  to  deepen  the  melancholy  of  her 
mien,  as  if  she  were  always  wearing  a  thin  film 
of  black  over  her  sad  face.  I  knew  that  her  life 
now  held  but  a  sole  spark  of  cheer  or  hope.  That 
was  myself.  Without  me  to  guard  and  prize,  it  is 
doubtful  if  she  would  have  cared  about  life  at  all. 
I  was  sure  that  she  always  thought  a  great  deal 
of  my  father.  But  she  never  even  mentioned  his 
name  to  me.  She  wanted  me  to  forget  him  if  I 
could.  She  wanted  to  forget  him  herself,  but 
could  not.  She  had  wrapped  the  past  in  silence, 
but  she  failed  to  clothe  it  with  oblivion  likewise. 
She  yearned  to  hear  from  him  or  of  him,  and  yet 
she  equally  desired  neither  event.  For  his  sake 
she  would  have  been  terrified  if  she  had  learned 
that  he  had  searched  the  city  in  quest  of  her, 
though  for  her  own  sake  she  would  have  secretly 
rejoiced  at  such  knowledge.  It  was  a  strange 
blending  of  resignation  and  discontent.  Perhaps 
the  two  feelings  did  not  blend,  after  all,  and  there 
was  a  gulf  between  them  which  I  somehow 
spanned.  She  might  have  sought  him  and  found 


46  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

him  again,  spurred  by  her  undying  love,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  me.  But  to  do  this  would  have  been 
to  place  me  under  his  influence,  apart  from  giving 
him  fresh  incentive  for  his  frightful  jealousies. 
She  had  looked  her  fate  calmly  in  the  eyes,  and 
had  decided.  She  plied  her  needle,  smiled  often, 
never  went  out  of  doors,  and  tried  to  make  me 
believe  she  was  happy.  One  day  I  put  my  arm 
about  her  neck  and  kissed  her,  watching  what  she 
sewed.  It  was  a  yielding  white  stuff,  and  she  was 
fixing  broad  plaits  in  it.  It  was  another  shroud. 
Mike  O'Hara  and  his  Martha  had  been  thriving  of 
late,  and  we  throve  with  them. 

"  Mamma,"  I  said,  "  why  do  you  never  go  out  ? 
Sometimes  the  days  are  very  pleasant.  And  after 
I  have  done  with  my  lessons  in  the  mornings  you 
let  me  go  out.  Why  do  you  never  go  yourself? " 

She  looked  at  me  intently  for  a  moment.  I  put 
my  arms  still  closer  about  her  neck.  I  kissed  her 
again.  "  Mamma,"  I  whispered,  "  tell  me.  Are 
you  afraid  of  him  ?  " 

She  drooped  her  gaze.  She  made  a  feint  of 
continuing  to  stitch  at  the  white  plaits.  "You 
know,  Otho,"  she  faltered,  soon.  "  You  must 
know." 

I  did.  But  almost  cruelly  I  persisted,  strength 
ening  my  caress.  "  You  are  afraid  he  will  find  us, 
mamma.  That  is  why  you  never  go  out.  But 
you  let  me  go  for  long  walks  with  Michael." 

She  slowly  nodded.     "  Yes.     I  let  you  go  with 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  47 

Michael.  He  is  very  strong.  He  will  take  care 
of  you.  And  you  need  the  air  every  day,  and  the 
exercise.  Michael  understands." 

I  put  my  lips  close  to  her  ear.  "Michael  is 
strong,"  I  whispered,  "but  he  is  stronger.  If  he 
should  see  me  what  could  Michael  or  anyone  do 
against  him  ?  He  would  tear  me  away ;  he  would 
make  me  tell  him  where  you  are  ;  he  "  — 

But  I  paused  here,  for  she  had  dropped  her 
work  and  had  clasped  me  round  the  body  with 
eager  arms. 

It  was  like  a  revelation.  She  was  in  a  sudden 
tremor  of  excitement.  "  Oh,  my  son,  my  Otho," 
she  exclaimed,  "  I  let  you  go,  but  I  suffer  when 
you  are  away  from  me  !  "  She  had  drawn  my 
head  down  to  her  bosom ;  she  was  kissing  my 
cheeks,  and  patting  my  hair  with  little  rapid  mo 
tions  of  one  hand.  "If  —  if  he  should  find  you 
and  take  you  from  me,  I  —  I  should  go  mad  or  die 
—  I  do  not  know  which." 

And  then  she  fell  to  sobbing  excitedly  on  my 
shoulder.  I  was  silent  for  quite  a  little  while. 
At  length  I  said,  very  solemnly  and  meaningly : 

"  I  shall  never  go  out  again,  mamma,  unless  we 
go  together.  If  he  meets  us  he  must  meet  us 
both.  Remember  what  I  tell  you.  Michael  and 
Martha  may  know  why,  or  not,  just  as  you  please. 
But  I  will  never  go  out  again  unless  I  go  with  you. 
If  anything  should  happen  we  must  be  together. 
If  he  is  waiting  and  watching  for  us,  let  him  find 


48  TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

us  side  by  side.  Do  you  understand  me,  mam 
ma?" 

Still  clasping  me,  she  lifted  her  dark  eyes  to 
mine.  They  swam  in  tears.  She  could  scarcely 
utter  the  words  that  now  brokenly  left  her  lips. 

"  Yes,  Otho.  It  —  shall  —  be  as  you  will.  I  do 
understand.  When  —  we  —  go,  we  will  go  to 
gether  !  " 

How  fateful  those  words  of  hers  sound  to  me, 
echoing  through  the  departed  years !  And  for 
what  a  mournful  reason  have  they  found  a  lodg 
ing-place  in  my  memory,  ignorant  as  I  then  was 
of  the  disaster  they  foreshadowed ! 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 


III. 

THROUGH  weeks  I  firmly  kept  my  resolve.     It 
was  sometimes  hard  to  keep,  for  I  loved  my  walks 
with  Michael,  and   had  grown  used  to  entering 
houses  with  him  where  the  black  sign  of  death 
met  us  at  thresholds,  and  where  loss  would  not 
seldom  wear  as  much  snivelling  hypocrisy  as  real 
regret.     Michael,  too,  was  very  keen-witted,  in  his 
way ;  he  had  a  swift  knowledge  of  his  clients ;  he 
was  born  for  his  dreary  calling.     There  was  noth 
ing  unctuous  or  mock-sober  about  his  approaches. 
He  saw  through  shams  and  dealt  with  them  by  a 
shrewd   and   summary  diplomacy.      I   remember 
that  we  once  entered  together  a  narrow  little  room 
in  a  German  tenement-house  not  far  away  from 
the   Bowery.      We    were   received   by   a  woman 
nearly  as  tall  as  Michael  himself,  who  wore  not  a 
vestige  of  mourning,  and  carried  an  ornate  gold 
ear-ring  in  either  prominent  ear.     Her  gray  hair 
was  drawn  tightly  backward  from  each  temple  ; 
she  was  the  most  Dutch-looking  old  woman,  with 
her  big,  tallowy  visage,  and  her  hirsute  wart,  and 
her  small  rheumy  eyes,  that  I  ever  recollected  hav 
ing  seen.     She  received  us  in  a  frayed  wrapper 


50  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

and  a  pair  of  carpet  slippers.  She  put  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side  as  she  said  : 

"  Veil,  Mr.  O'Wara,  he's  gone."  ("  He  "  was 
the  late  Mr.  Schmitt,  a  grocer  with  whom  Martha 
had  formerly  dealt.)  "  He  pass  avay  chuss  lige  a 
shild.  I  guess  'bout  an  hour  ago.  I  vas  vaitin' 
fur  you  ever  since.  I  thord  you  mide  be  arount." 

Mike  nodded,  and  scratched  one  bluish  cheek. 
He  had  on  his  best  professional  expression  —  some 
thing  between  a  leer  and  a  scowl.  I  had  become 
perfectly  familiar  with  it,  and  knew  its  wholly 
commercial  nature  ;  he  put  it  on  and  off  at  a 
moment's  notice,  like  the  white  cotton  gloves  then 
in  his  pocket.  "  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  now  said  with 
great  sobriety.  "  I  haird  lash'  night  as  Mr.  Smith 
was  putty  low,  an  —  well,  well,  I'm  sorry,  ma'am, 
an'  I  guess  there's  rnanny  another  that'll  even  be 
sorrier  nor  me  ! " 

"  He  vas  a  goot  man,"  said  Mrs.  Schmitt.  She 
did  not  appear  to  be  sorry.  "  He  alvays  gif  your 
vife  goot  measure,  ain't  it,  Mr.  O'Wara?"  she 
suddenly  asked. 

"  Oh,  shure,  ma'am,  yes,  indeed ! "  declared  Mike, 
thoroughly  thrown  off  his  guard. 

Mrs.  Schmitt  put  her  head  a  good  deal  more  on 
one  side,  and  a  sickly  smile  crept  out  at  the  cor 
ners  of  her  lips.  "  I  thord  you  say  so,  Mr.  O'Wara. 
.  .  Mr.  Rosenbaum  vas  in  shuss  before  you  come, 
an'  ve  vas  a  talkin'  'boud  cle  casked." 

To  talk  about  the  casket  with  Mr.  Rosenbaum 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  51 

was,  of  course,  a  serious  matter  for  Michael. 
Rosenbaimi  was  a  rival  undertaker,  an  oily  little 
Jew  with  a  sliding  scale  of  prices  ;  he  could  be 
"  beaten  down  "  unmercifully,  as  he  usually  was 
and  expected  to' be.  Michael,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  a  set  of  inflexible  prices  for  all  his  dismal 
wares  and  services,  and  held  the  haggling  Rosen- 
baum  in  grand  contempt.  Still,  business  was 
business,  and  Rosenbaum  was  a  German  and  must 
not  be  roughly  spoken  of  here,  if  the  present 
"job"  was  to  be  secured.  So  Michael  scratched 
his  cheek  again,  and  cleared  his  throat,  and  said : 

"  Well,  ma'am,  an'  did  ye  come  to  anny  turrums 
wid  .  .  the  other  gintleman  ?  "  He  disliked  to 
pronounce  the  odious  name,  but  it  must  have  cost 
him  a  pang  to  call  Rosenbaum  a  gentleman. 

"  Veil,"  said  Mrs.  Schmitt,  with  a  cough  as  dry 
as  the  rustle  of  a  dead  maize-stalk.  "  I  guess  I 
ord  to  teal  vit  Rosenbaum,  Mr.  O'Wara.  I  ord 
do  'cause  he's  a  coundryman  o'  mine  if  fur  no 
odder  reason.  .  .  Still,  sphsosin'  you'd  lemme  haf 
de  casked  sheaper  .  .  say  a  toller  or  so  sheaper, 
vy,  I  rnide  go  to  you.  I  do'  vand  no  ice  nor  nod- 
din',  you  unnershtand,  akcep'  de  casked.  It's  cole 
vedder,  an'  I  god  bode  de  vinders  up,  an'  a  liddle 
salpeeder  alvays  on  his  face,  an'  he'll  keep  firsd  rate 
till  de  funerrel.  So  now,  how  mush  you  sharge 
fur  shuss  de  casked  an'  vat  has  to  be  done  de  day 
of  de  funerrel,  ari'  vun  carridch  besites  de  hairss  ? 
I  do  efryting  elss  myself.  Vat  you  sharge  ?  " 


52  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

Michael  promptly  told  her,  and  received  a  little 
falsetto  scream  of  dismay.  Rosenbaum  would  do  it 
nearly  six  dollars  cheaper.  It  at  once  became  evi 
dent  to  Michael  that  Mrs.  Schmitt  had  beaten  Ros 
enbaum  down  just  as  far  as  she  could  possibly 
make  him  go,  and  was  now  using  the  last  desperate 
offer  of  the  Jew  as  a  means  of  forcing  his  rival 
into  a  still  lower  offer.  Young  as  I  was,  I  felt  this 
raw  greed,  shown  at  such  a  time,  flush  my  cheek. 
Michael  drew  me  out  of  the  room  very  soon  after 
ward.  There  was  a  look  on  his  face  wholly  un 
professional  and  sincere.  And  just  before  he  left 
her  he  told  Mrs.  Schmitt  that  if  she  had  been  a 
very  poor  woman  she  might  have  had  some  excuse 
to  stand  there  and  barter  about  her  husband's 
burial-fee,  but  that  being  a  woman  of  thrift  and 
means,  it  was  disgraceful  in  her.  I  forget  his  pre 
cise  words,  but  they  were  very  trenchant.  He 
left  the  house  at  once  after  speaking  them,  and  in 
the  sort  of  low  rumble  that  his  lips  made  during 
the  next  few  minutes  I  am  afraid  that  I  detected 
a  good  deal  of  hard  profanity. 

Still,  his  disgust  was  quite  pardonable.  It 
would  have  made  a  good  many  men,  worlds  more 
lettered  than  he,  swear  just  as  roundly.  "  Shure 
if  he  hadn't  left  her  the  shtore  an'  the  bizness," 
he  presently  said,  becoming  coherent  and  per 
haps  a  trifle  apologetic  to  myself  as  well,  "  I 
—  I  wudn't  moind  a  bit.  But  it's  a  heap  o' 
money  he's  left  her,  so  he  has,  bad  luck  to  her 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  53 

fur    as    stingy   and    misserruble    a   wan    as   ever 
walked !  " 

The  sadness  of  such  glimpses  as  this  into  human 
life  would  often  stay  with  me  and  haunt  me.  I 
was  just  at  the  age  when  we  begin  to  think  and 
muse,  if  we  are  dowered  with  fair  intelligence, 
what  sort  of  a  planet  fate  has  cast  us  upon.  But 
Michael  was  not  always  so  obdurate  and  unyield 
ing  to  his  customers.  I  remember  going  with 
him  up  several  stairs  to  an  attic  in  Hester  street. 
The  room  which  we  entered  contained  the  corpse 
which  we  had  come  to  bury.  It  was  sheeted,  and 
the  inevitable  Romanist  candles  burned  at  its 
head  and  feet.  A  Mr.  Lynch  had  died,  and  his 
relict,  Mrs.  Lynch,  greeted  us  amid  a  family 
group  of  no  less  than  seven  children.  The  eldest 
of  them  were  girls,  who  stared  upon  us  blankly, 
and  all  of  them  had  bare  feet,  gear  torn  and  dirty, 
and  tangled  hair.  There  was  a  print  of  Our  Lady 
of  Seven  Sorrows  over  the  mantel.  I  could  not 
help  thinking,  as  I  counted  the  frowzy  children 
scattered  about  the  room,  that  Mrs.  Lynch  was 
a  lady  with  seven  sorrows,  too.  The  little  girls 
were  plaintively  noisy  and  the  little  boys  harshly 
so.  One  was  a  baby,  and  it  had  been  left  quite 
naked  on  the  floor  near  a  basin  of  water  which  it 
wished  to  paddle  in  and  could  not,  having  fallen 
over  on  its  back.  I  recollect  going  to  it  amid  the 
clatter,  and  pitifully  raising  it  up.  While  I  did  so 
I  heard  Michael's  deep  voice  say : 


54  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Lynch,  I'll  do  the  besht  I  can  fur 
ye,  an'  no  man  can  do  more,  d'ye  undershtand, 
nur  that,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Lynch  was  very  stout.  Her  bosom  was 
simply  exorbitant,  and  over  the  insecure  cotton 
stuff  which  clothed  it  towered  a  very  coarse,  red- 
cheeked  moon  of  a  face.  She  listened  while  Mike 
explained  his  charges. 

"An'  it's  you,  Mike  O'Hara,  that  talks  to  me 
loike  this ! "  she  cried,  in  withering  reproach  and 
anger.  "  It's  you,  is  it,  that  knew  mee  family  in 
Duudalk  !  Shure,  w'at  was  your  father  compared 
to  mee  own  annyhow  ?  He  was  a  farmer,  so  he 
was,  an'  not  loike  yours,  begorra,  that  moight  'a 
wurked  under  'im,  so  ye  moight !  An'  I  sent  fur 
ye  to  bury  my  Jerry  daicent,  so  I  did,  an'  not  to 
come  here  wid  your  big  prices !  " 

"I  ain't  haird  about  no  big  prices  yet,"  said 
Michael,  in  very  docile  tones,  scratching  his  cheek. 

"  Oh,  ye  ain't !  "  cried  Mrs.  Lynch,  in  hot  satire. 
"  Very  well !  Ye  may  lave  mee  apartments,  Mr. 
O'Hara.  I  knew  ye  well  in  th'  ould  country,  an' 
ye  can't  impose  upon  me  here.  So  that's  all  there 
is  about  it.  If  Jerry's  to  be  buried  in  Calvary 
he'll  be  buried  there  daicent,  ye  moind,  but  he'd 
rise  an'  shtand  roight  up  here  among  the  seven 
child'en  he's  left  me,  so  he  wud,  if  he  haird  w'at 
ye're  after  ashkin'  to  put  'im  reshpectable  in  his 
grave  I  "  .  . 

"  Why  did  you  let  her  have  a  coffin  at  such  a 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  55 

low  price,  Mike  ?  "  I  said  to  my  companion,  after 
we  had  regained  the  street  and  heard  no  more 
either  of  Mrs.  Lynch's  yells  or  those  of  her  chil 
dren.  "Is  it  because  she's  Irish,  like  yourself?" 

No,  it  was  not  because  Mrs.  Lynch  was  Irish. 
It  was  because  Mike,  who  knew  the  pinch  and 
stab  of  poverty  so  well,  had  pitied  the  loud,  aggres 
sive  widow  as  she  did  not  deserve  to  be  pitied. 
That  was  all.  .  .  .  And  these  episodes  happened 
every  day  with  us.  I  have  narrated  two  salient 
ones,  but  we  witnessed  others,  just  as  comic,  just 
as  pathetic. 

Mike  was  so  fond  of  having  me  for  a  companion 
that  I  could  not  understand  why  he  now  accepted 
so  resignedly  the  change  of  my  indoor  life.  But 
he  did  accept  it  without  a  word  of  objection,  and 
I  naturally  supposed  that  my  mother  had  talked 
with  him  in  private. 

I  began  to  fail  in  health,  however,  and  chiefly, 
no  doubt,  from  my  sudden  cessation  of  all  exer 
cise.  Languid  fits  overcame  me,  and  sometimes 
my  food  for  days  would  be  almost  that  of  a  bird. 
Afterward  strong,  I  as  yet  gave  no  sign  of  my 
father's  vigor ;  the  physical  part  of  me  seemed 
mostly  of  maternal  origin ;  I  had  my  mother's 
large  dark  eyes,  her  sensitive  outline  of  face,  her 
slenderness  of  shape,  though  I  promised  to  be  tall, 
which  she  was  not.  I  had  not  my  mother's  hair, 
however,  for  my  own  locks  were  sunny,  and  in 
deed  almost  as  if  threaded  with  gold.  In  those 


56  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

days  I  never  thought  of  my  being  handsome  or 
not.  No  one  told  me  that  I  possessed  beauty, 
except  possibly  Martha,  in  her  most  beaming 
moods,  and  even  if  I  had  become  wholly  assured 
of  this  fact  I  do  not  think  that  it  would  have  con 
cerned  me  in  any  serious  way. 

And  yet  I  am  compelled  here  to  record  (with 
out  the  least  impulse  of  vanity,  but  simply  as  a 
chronicler  who  sets  down  the  black  and  white 
of  what  he  states)  that  I  was  then,  at  the  age  of 
eleven  years,  a  notably  beautiful  boy.  This  herit 
age  never  left  me ;  it  was  my  birthright,  and  as 
that  it  remained.  In  after  years  it  became  a  great 
aid  to  me,  as  the  succeeding  pages  of  my  story 
will  show.  But  I  think  the  endowment  was  at  its 
best  in  my  childhood,  and  perhaps  because  my 
complete  ignorance  of  it  lent  it  the  element  of 
unconsciousness.  More  than  once,  during  my 
rambles  beside  Michael,  I  remembered  saying  to 
him  with  a  touch  of  puzzlement  in  my  tones: 
"  Michael,  why  do  people  look  at  me  so  hard  ?  It 
seems,  sometimes,  as  if  they  knew  who  I  am,  or 
had  known  me  before,  and  wanted  to  speak  to 
me." 

Michael  would  laugh  in  a  low,  chuckling  style 
that  did  not  at  all  disarray  the  sombre  repose  of 
his  haggard  face.  But  I  never  understood.  My 
beauty  came  to  me  as  my  disposition  came,  from 
wholly  explainable  sources.  My  parents,  in  their 
different  types,  had  been  of  striking  personal  gifts. 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  57 

I  had  inherited  a  combination  of  these.  Until 
later  there  was  no  one  to  tell  me  the  worth  or 
even  the  meaning  of  such  a  legacy. 

I  still  kept  the  vow  made  to  my  mother  about 
not  leaving  the  house  unless  she  went  with  me. 
I  often  saw  her  eyes  dwell  worriedly  upon  my 
face ;  doubtless  my  loss  of  health  made  me  very 
pale.  But  she  did  not  ask  me  to  break  my  re 
solve.  She  comprehended  that  no  amount  of  ask 
ing  would  make  me  do  so.  She  saw  that  my 
determination  sprang  a  great  deal  more  from  love 
than  from  fear.  But  at  last  she  yielded.  I  did 
not  want  her  to  yield,  but  the  concession  came, 
nevertheless.  I  was  contented  enough  to  bide 
indoors.  Since  our  talk  together  about  my  father, 
there  had  grown  within  me  something  like  a  ter 
ror  of  going  out  at  all.  If  he  were  really  waiting 
to  confront  us,  why  not  remain  in  retreat  and 
obscurity  until  the  lapse  of  time  brought  with  it 
safety  of  emergence  ? 

One  day  my  mother  said  to  me :  "  Otho,  you 
are  not  well,  my  son.  You  need  the  air.  Will 
you  not  go  with  Michael,  as  you  used  to  do  ?  " 

I  looked  at  her.  I  shook  my  head  as  I  did  so. 
"  No,"  I  replied.  She  understood  me,  and  for  the 
time  held  her  peace.  Two  days  later  she  said  to 
me :  "  Otho,  the  weather  is  very  fine  this  morn 
ing.  You  have  studied  hard,  of  late.  You  have 
got  so  far  in  your  lessons  that,  as  you  see,  I  am 
unable  to  follow  you,  or  to  teach  you  more. 


58  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

There  is  a  public  school  only  a  little  distance 
from  here.  I  want  you  to  go  there  with  Michael 
and  present  yourself  as  a  scholar." 

"  No,  mamma,"  I  answered,  calmly  and  stolidly. 

She  put  her  hand  on  my  arm.  "  Otho,"  she 
said,  "will  you  go  with  me?" 

"  Yes,"  I  at  once  answered.  "  But  you  must 
promise  to  walk  to  and  from  the  school  with  me, 
every  morning  and  afternoon." 

"  No  .  .  I  cannot." 

"  Then  I  will  not  go  to  the  school,"  I  said. 

"  Otho,  you  are  wilful  and  disobedient." 

"  I  can't  help  it,  mamma." 

"  But  your  health  is  not  what  it  was." 

"  Yes  —  I  know.  You  want  me  to  walk  abroad. 
I  will  do  so,  with  you." 

My  mother  heaved  a  low  sigh.  I  was  not  wil 
ful  or  disobedient  in  other  ways,  and  I  am  sure 
that  she  gave  me  full  credit  for  being  neither. 

"Very  well,"  she  presently  said,  rising,  "we 
will  take  a  little  stroll  together  this  morning." 

I  sprang  toward  her  and  threw  my  arms  about 
her  neck.  "  Mamma !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  You  hate 
to  go ! " 

"  Yes,  Otho." 

I  drew  backward.  I  was  very  stubborn  in  my 
intent ;  nothing  could  shake  me.  "  Then  you 
need  not  go,"  I  said. 

"  But  you  force  me,"  she  responded  gently. 

I  bit  my  lip.     The  tears  had  rushed  to  my  eyes. 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  59 

"Oh,  mamma,"  I  cried,  "you  know  why  I  will 
not  go  without  you  !  "  .  .  . 

A  little  later  we  left  the  house,  side  by  side. 
We  did  not  go  to  the  school.  It  was  pleasant  to 
be  abroad  once  more.  The  sun  was  shining ; 
there  had  been  a  winter  thaw ;  great  drops  came 
from  the  awnings  of  stores ;  enough  melted  snow 
remained  in  the  streets  to  let  a  few  sleighs  pass 
with  their  merry  jingles.  I  grew  gay  and  garru 
lous  before  we  had  taken  a  hundred  paces.  It 
felt  so  pleasant  to  breathe  the  free,  open  air ! 

That  afternoon  I  returned  home  with  at  least 
the  semblance  of  an  appetite.  Martha  watched 
me  at  supper  and  rapturously  praised  me  for  my  re 
newed  powers  of  consumption.  Michael  watched 
me,  too,  but  he  said  nothing.  I  had  my  long 
talks  with  both  husband  and  wife,  just  as  of  old, 
but  they  never  presumed  a  word  regarding  my  self- 
immurement.  Of  course  they  both  had  learned 
its  cause  from  my  mother.  The  next  day  she 
went  out  with  me  again.  I  soon  grew  better. 
My  strength  returned;  I  ate;  I  ceased  to  take 
tired  naps  at  midday ;  my  laugh  rang  louder  and 
blither  through  the  house  —  this  little  house  in 
the  Bowery,  dedicated  to  the  sale  of  coffins,  the 
making  of  shrouds,  the  appurtenance  and  concom 
itance  of  death. 

My  mother  was  still  sad.  Our  walks  did  not 
gladden  her,  though  they  gave  new  life  and 
strength  to  me.  For  this  reason  she  made  them 


60  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

a  daily  occurrence.  We  always  kept  within  the 
close  neighborhood  of  the  Bowery;  it  somehow 
seemed  to  be  safer  there,  though  the  Bowery  was 
then  almost  the  chief  New- York  thoroughfare. 

One  evening,  in  my  twelfth  year,  a  most  memo 
rable  event  took  place.  We  were  about  to  seat 
ourselves  at  supper.  Michael,  as  usual,  brought 
in  the  evening  paper.  He  always  handed  it  to 
my  mother.  She  would  sometimes  spend  a  half- 
hour  with  its  contents  while  Martha  busied  her 
self  preparing  our  meal. 

But  on  the  especial  evening  to  which  I  refer 
my  mother  suddenly  dropped  the  paper,  three  or 
four  minutes  after  it  had  been  handed  to  her,  and 
uttered  a  sharp,  bitter  cry  as  she  did  so. 

We  all  hurried  to  her  side.  For  some  time  she 
was  quite  speechless.  She  could  tell  us  nothing ; 
she  could  only  stare  at  us  with  glazed  eyes.  But 
at  length  she  pointed  downward  at  the  journal 
which  she  had  been  reading.  I  ran  my  gaze 
along  its  columns.  On  a  sudden  a  very  familiar 
name  arrested  it.  That  was  the  name  of  my 
father,  Leopold  Clauss. 

Yes,  there  it  was,  in  large  type,  glaring  at  me. 
And  what  words  accompanied  it  ?  Heavens !  had 
I  lost  my  senses?  Had  my  mother's  agitation 
alarmed  me  out  of  my  reason?  No,  the  printed 
lines  were  too  clear  for  that.  It  must  be  true. 
I  looked  up  at  my  mother.  Her  face  was  very 
white,  but  no  whiter,  I  fancy,  than  my  own.  If 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  61 

ever  two  human  creatures  exchanged  a  glance  of 
silent  terror  we  did  so  then.  But  it  was  not  a 
selfish  terror.  I  knew  that  her  heart  could  not 
feel  a  selfish  thrill  if  it  had  tried ;  and  with  me 
the  thought  of  her  dire  peril  had  leaped  horrify 
ingly  uppermost.  Martha,  seeing  the  pallor  and 
distress  of  our  faces,  broke  into  a  frightened  wail. 
The  next  minute  Michael  had  taken  me  in  his 
strong  arms,  with  a  tenderness  exquisite  for  so 
rough  a  creature. 

"  Whist,  Mashter  Otho,"  he  said.  "  Luk  at  me 
an'  tell  me  w'at  it  is  ye  seen  in  the  paper  .  . 
Mashter  Otho ! "  (for  I  could  not  heed  him,  I 
could  not  keep  my  eyes  off  my  mother's  hueless 
face),  "Mashter  Otho,  I  say!  It's  Mike  that's 
ashkin'  ye,  dear  little  wan !  Luk  at  me  an'  tell 
me!" 

But  here  my  mother  found  a  voice,  though  it 
was  quite  weak  and  husky.  "  There  —  there  is 
something  in  the  paper  about  my  husband,"  she 
said.  "  He  has  attempted  a  murder." 

"  A  murthur ! "  echoed  Martha,  with  a  little 
scream.  Poor  Martha  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
covered  her  face.  Then,  in  her  misery  at  my 
mother's  misery,  the  ruling  passion  asserted  it 
self,  and  she  began  to  assail  her  husband  with 
reproaches. 

"  Wy  didn't  ye  have  more  common  sense,  man, 
than  to  let  Missus  Clorz  see  the  paper  at  all  until 
you'd  skhimined  it  over  yerself?  That's  jusht 


62  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

you,  Mike  O'Hara,  through  the  wurld !  Anny 
other  man  wud  "... 

But  ray  mother  stopped  this  absurd  torrent  of 
rebuke  by  a  wave  of  the  hand.  She  was  fast 
growing  herself  again.  She  pointed  once  more 
to  the  paper.  "  Read,  Michael,"  she  said.  "  And 
be  silent,  Martha.  How  can  you  blame  your 
good  husband?  What  will  you  not  blame  him 
for,  soon  ?  .  .  Read,  Michael  —  I  cannot,  yet." 

Michael  presently  did  read.  He  made  a  gro 
tesque  herald  of  the  sinister  tidings  which  my 
mother  and  I  now  waited  to  hear  in  full.  Some 
of  his  pronunciations  might  have  hinted  striking 
novelties  to  an  eccentric  verbalist.  He  floun 
dered,  he  stumbled,  he  treated  certain  words  as 
if  they  were  hurdles,  and  indeed  a  few  of  them 
wholly  upset  him.  But  the  terrible  truth  stealing 
upon  us  through  this  medium  of  the  quaint  and 
the  ludicrous,  perhaps  took  a  new  irony  and  sting. 
What  he  read,  put  into  other  language,  was  this : 

My  father,  on  the  previous  evening,  just  at 
dusk,  had  suddenly  attacked  a  lady  named  Dorian, 
as  she  was  leaving  the  stoop  of  her  residence  in 
Lafayette  Place,  and  about  to  enter  a  carriage. 
His  appearance  at  the  time  was  excited  and  di 
shevelled  ;  he  looked  like  a  man  under  mental 
aberration,  though  he  bore  no  signs  of  being  intox 
icated.  Mrs.  Dorian — well-known  as  the  widow 
of  a  wealthy  New- York  merchant  —  was  of  course 
quite  unprepared  for  the  attack,  and  uttered  a  cry 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  63 

as  Clauss  drew  a  small,  sharp  knife  upon  her.  In 
another  minute  he  would  have  inflicted  a  wound, 
had  not  a  passer-by  of  powerful  frame  and  quick 
courage  (his  name  was  of  course  given,  but  it  has 
long  ago  escaped  my  memory)  dashed  up  to  the 
would-be  murderer  and  seized  his  wrist  with  both 
hands.  Instead,  however,  of  a  struggle  ensuing 
between  the  two  men,  Clauss  had  abruptty  dropped 
his  knife  and  showed  great  docility.  For,  as  the 
lady  rushed  back  toward  her  dwelling,  he  had 
seen  her  face  in  a  new  light,  and  discovered  that 
she  was  not  the  person  whom  he  had  at  first  be 
lieved  her.  He  attempted  no  flight,  and  police- 
aid  being  near  at  hand,  he  was  at  once  taken  into 
custody.  On  arrest,  he  refused  to  give  his  name, 
but  merely  muttered,  in  a  gloomy  way  and  with  a 
strong  foreign  accent,  that  he  had  mistaken  the 
lady  for  his  wife,  who  had  deserted  him,  and  that 
he  was  sorry  for  having  been  misled  by  a  strange 
resemblance.  He  also  declared  that  it  had  been 
for  several  months  his  intention  to  kill  his  wife  if 
he  ever  met  her,  and  that  he  had  constantly  gone 
armed  for  this  purpose.  He  had  been  committed 
promptly  for  breach  of  peace,  and  had  afterward 
still  refused  to  give  his  name.  His  person  having 
been  searched,  however,  several  letters  were  found 
upon  it  addressed  to  Leopold  Clauss.  He  had 
subsequently  admitted  this  name  to  be  his  own. 
The  prisoner's  general  appearance  and  his  great 
physical  vigor  were  here  described.  Several  by- 


64  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

standers,  at  the  time  of  this  singular  occurrence, 
had  expressed  the  opinion  that  he  was  insane. 
But  although  in  a  state  of  severe  mental  turmoil, 
his  sanity  was  hardly  to  be  doubted.  In  any  case 
he  was  certainly  an  individual  to  be  placed  under 
restraint.  The  address  on  his  letters  had  been 
that  of  an  inferior  boarding-house  in  a  street  near 
the  lower  portion  of  the  Bowery.  Inquiries  con 
cerning  him  had  been  made  here,  and  although  his 
sober  habits  were  admitted  by  his  landlady,  she 
stated  that  he  was  much  in  her  debt  and  that  his 
morose  and  odd  behavior  had  for  some  time  made 
her  anxious  to  be  rid  of  him.  She  knew,  how 
ever,  nothing  of  his  antecedents.  A  report  had 
become  current  that  Mrs.  Dorian,  the  lady  whom 
he  had  so  curiously  attacked  und^er  the  conviction 
that  she  was  another  person,  had  recently  changed 
affright  for  interest,  and  was  very  desirous  of  in 
vestigating  the  whole  remarkable  case.  Mrs. 
Dorian  was  confident  of  never  having  seen  Clauss 
before.  She  was  a  French  lady,  who  had  lived  in 
New- York  since  her  marriage,  about  twelve  years 
ago,  to  the  late  Mr.  Charles  A.  Dorian,  formerly  a 
prosperous  importer  of  foreign  silks.  It  was 
rumored  that  Mrs.  Dorian,  both  through  curiosity 
and  a  certain  misplaced  pity,  had  resolved  to  visit 
Clauss  in  his  confinement  and  hold  an  interview 
with  him.  And  there  the  newspaper  article 
ended. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  night.     My  room  ad- 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  65 

joined  my  mother's,  and  I  sat  beside  her  bed  till 
dawn,  holding  her  hand.  I  knew  well  enough 
that  neither  Michael  nor  Martha  slept  in  any  but 
the  most  fitful  way,  for  I  could  constantly  hear 
their  voices  across  the  hall.  Still,  they  did  not 
disturb  us.  They  left  us  alone  with  our  grief  and 
our  fear. 

If  I  had  not  been  so  sure  that  my  mother  still 
loved  this  wretched  man  I  should  perhaps  have 
suffered  less  than  I  did.  But  I  was  certain  that 
such  indestructible  love  all  the  time  gave  a  fresh 
pang  to  her  agony.  My  counsel,  as  we  remained 
there,  side  by  side,  was  of  one  sort.  We  must  fly 
from  the  city.  Never  mind  if  they  sent  my  father 
to  prison  for  weeks  or  for  months.  Let  us  leave 
New- York.  Let  us  go  where  he  could  never  find 
us.  Some  day  they  would  set  him  free  again,  and 
then  he  would  watch  and  wait,  just  as  he  must 
have  done  before. 

But  my  mother  shook  her  head.  She  did  not  at 
first  explain  to  me  her  reason  for  doing  so.  Per 
haps  she  could  not  yet  explain.  Her  brain  was 
still  throbbing  and  whirling  ;  her  nerves  were  still 
tingling.  Late  that  night,  however,  she  said  to 
me,  lying  there  at  my  side  in  the  stillness  and 
shadow  of  the  room  : 

"  No,  Otho.  It  cannot  be.  I  will  not  take 
help  from  Michael  and  Martha,  and  that  is  what 
we  should  have  to  do  if  we  went  elsewhere.  They 
are  themselves  poor  enough,  as  you  know.  I  have 


66  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

gained  a  little  place  for  myself  here  ;  it  lets  you 
and  me  live  ;  it  is  not  much,  perhaps,  but  it  does 
that.  We  have  a  home,  Otho  —  a  coin  du  feu. 
Michael  and  Martha  are  far  more  like  servants  to 
us  both  than  I  wish  them  to  be.  I  should  like 
to  live  with  them  always  ;  I  love  them,  and  so  do 
you.  And  then  it  is  so  pleasant  for  me  to  remem 
ber,  Otho,  that  if  anything  should  befall  me,  they 
would  be  near  you,  almost  ready  to  die  for  you. 
I  never  saw  anything  like  the  love  you  have  in 
spired  in  them.  I  wonder  if  it  will  always  be  thus 
with  you  —  if  you  will  always  win  hearts  as  easily 
as  that.  If  you  do  you  will  be  one  of  God's  most 
rarely  gifted  creatures,  since  there  is  nothing  so 
precious  as  to  have  the  power  of  making  ourselves 
beloved  at  will  —  though,  alas !  there  is  deadly 
danger  in  the  gift,  too !  .  .  But  we  will  speak  of 
that  hereafter,  man  clieri ;  we  will  speak  now  of 
going  away.  It  would  be  folly.  The  more  that  I 
think  of  it  the  more  I  feel  it.  It  would  be  to 
change  welfare  for  poverty,  solvency  for  debt, 
peace  for  struggle.  Besides,  in  a  large  city  there 
is,  after  all,  the  least  risk  of  his  finding  us.  Here 
one  escapes  in  the  crowd,  as  it  might  be  said. 
And  then,  Otho  .  .  there  is  always  my  trust  in 
the  ban  Dieu.  I  am  not  a  good  Catholic,  as  you 
know  ;  there  was  never  anything  of  the  devote 
about  me  ;  but  I  have  faith  in  God's  goodness,  and 
I  do  not  believe  He  thinks  me  sinful  enough  to 
let  your  father  .  .  Well,  my  son,  you  understand 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  67 

what  I  would  say.  It  is  almost  terrible.  It  will 
haunt  me  for  weeks.  I  feel  as  if  some  part  of  me 
had  been  dipped  in  blood,  and  I  could  not  rub  off 
the  stain.  But  he  is  your  father  —  never  forget 
that,  Otho  !  " 

"  And  you  love  him  still,  mamma,"  I  said  to  her, 
under  my  breath.  "  Even  though  he  has  tried  to 
kill  another  woman,  thinking  she  was  you,  you 
still  love  him  !  " 

I  saw  her  breast  quiver  and  her  lips  tighten  as 
she  lay  there  at  my  side.  "  Otho,"  she  said,  "  it 
has  been  dreadful  for  you  to  remain  up  like  this. 
To-morrow  you  will  be  ill.  Go  at  once  to  bed, 
my  son.  Do  as  mamma  bids." 

"You  love  him  still,"  I  persisted,  with  no 
questioning  in  my  tones,  but  rather  a  sad  accusa 
tion  there. 

She  did  not  answer  me.  It  was  true.  A  sud 
den  passionate  feeling  swept  through  me.  I  had 
never  known  it  before,  and  I  did  not  recognize  it 
then.  But  it  was  jealousy,  pure  and  simple.  It 
was  jealousy  of  this  love  which  no  outrage  could 
weaken,  no  villany  lessen.  I  clenched  my  hands 
as  I  slipped  out  of  the  room.  A  little  later  I  lay 
in  my  own  bed,  beset  by  a  lurid  mood  which  I 
strove  to  control  without  avail.  There  seemed  to 
me  a  cause  for  burning  resentment  in  my  mother's 
unalterable  affection.  I  felt  as  if  the  fresh  insight 
I  had  gained  into  that  ideal  wifely  constancy  were 
a  wrong,  a  jeer  and  a  slur  to  my  own  filial  love. 


68  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

But  the  mood  at  length  died  away  in  a  troubled 
sleep,  and  the  sleep  was  followed  by  a  dolorous 
awakening  of  headache  and  fever.  A  severe  ill 
ness  ensued,  and  I  lay  for  a  fortnight  prostrated 
by  one  of  those  fits  of  nervous  exhaustion  which 
to  a  boy  of  my  frail  health  might  easily  have 
meant  death.  Need  I  tell,  at  this  stage  of  these 
confessions,  whose  care  and  devotion  helped  me 
to  live  ?  But  she  was  not  my  only  nurse.  Four 
other  eyes  watched  me  besides  her  two  dark, 
patient  ones.  I  remember  waking  from  a  sleep 
full  of  delirious  dreams,  on  a  certain  afternoon  (I 
have  a  fancy  that  it  somehow  must  have  been 
afternoon),  and  crying  out  wild  words  in  French 
—  words  like  these  :  "  C'est  papa  !  Prends  garde, 
mamanf  11  veut  te  tuer  !  II  a  un  couteau  —  un 
grand  couteau  !  Depeches-toi  !  " 

And  then  an  arm  of  iron,  except  that  it  was 
gentle  as  any  girl's,  slid  under  my  hot  form,  and 
I  was  drawn  so  closely  to  a  broad,  hard  breast 
that  one  or  two  of  the  bristles  of  Mike's  beard 
grazed  my  cheek.  And  I  was  not  startled,  though 
I  expected  my  mother ;  she  had  always  been  near 
me  hitherto  when  I  had  had  these  unhappy  seiz 
ures.  But  Michael  did  just  as  well,  that  day. 
The  tears  rush  to  my  eyes  now  as  I  think  of  how 
that  man  had  grown  to  worship  me.  I  never  gave 
him  half  nor  a  third  of  the  love  he  gave  to  me.  I 
never  gave  it  to  Martha,  who  would  (I  verily  be 
lieve  so  !)  have  laid  down  her  life  to  preserve  mine. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  69 

I  never  gave  it  —  yes,  let  me  write  the  plain  words 
where  I  wish  all  to  be  plain  and  unsparing  —  I 
never  gave  it  to  the  mother  whose  passion  for  me 
was  an  absolute  sanctity.  I  have  never  really 
known  what  it  is  to  love  —  except  once.  I  have 
been  capable  of  a  great  fondness  in  more  than  a 
single  case.  But  it  seems  to  have  been  my  fate, 
my  doom,  that  others  should  care  for  me  better 
than  I  cared  for  them.  I  did  not  realize  all  this 
till  long  afterward.  I  thought  that  I  loved  my 
mother  just  as  well  as  she  loved  me,  but  I  now  see, 
looking  back  through  the  solemn  vista  of  experi 
ence,  just  how  wrong  I  was !  .  .  What  has  it 
always  been?  Has  it  been  my  beauty,  which 
grew  as  I  grew  and  stared  me  in  the  face  like  a 
challenge  to  vanity?  Has  it  been  a  trick  of 
smile,  an  unconscious  mode  of  speech,  an  inherent 
mannerism  of  charm?  I  cannot  say.  I  only 
know  that  I  could  win  without  choosing  or  caring 
to  win,  when  the  years  made  me  older,  and  that 
then,  in  my  boyhood,  a  sense  of  this  power  had 
begun  to  dawn  upon  me.  God  knows  that  there 
is  no  vainglory  in  these  words  I  now  write ! 
Sooner  or  later  they  must  have  been  written  in 
the  pages  whose  record  means  the  laying  bare  of 
a  life,  the  exposition  of  a  soul !  .  .  . 

My  illness  lasted  a  fortnight,  as  I  have  stated. 
But  with  all  these  grim  facilities  at  its  hand,  as 
one  might  say,  death  did  not  claim  me,  there  in 
Michael's  abode  of  undertaking.  If  I  had  died  I 


70  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

suppose  they  would  have  called  it  cerebral  con 
gestion.  I  wonder  how  poor  Mike  and  Martha, 
in  that  event,  would  have  told  their  friends  with 
what  malady  I  had  passed  away.  Ah,  no !  they 
would  neither  of  them,  good  souls,  have  been 
able  to  pronounce  the  big  Latinity  of  the  words. 
Their  tears  would  have  choked  them  even  more 
than  their  ignorance ! 

My  convalescence  was  rapid,  considering  my 
dire  peril.  But  it  is  thus  in  nearly  all  functional 
disturbances  of  the  brain.  Less  than  another 
fortnight  left  me  comparatively  well,  though  still 
weak  and  nervous. 

I  soon  questioned  my  mother  about  the  event 
which  had  so  sharply  preceded  my  ailment. 
Where  was  my  father  now?  What  had  happened 
since  I  last  heard  of  him  ?  What  tidings  had  the 
newspapers  given  us  ? 

My  father  had  been  sent  to  prison.  It  was  not 
to  be  a  long  incarceration.  His  assault  might 
have  been  a  crime,  but  the  law  judged  from  re 
sults,  not  intentions.  An  effort  had  been  made  to 
find  the  wrife,  because  of  whom  he  had  planned 
his  vile  deed,  but  without  success. 

I  shuddered  as  I  heard  this  last  meaning  detail. 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  71 


IV. 


WHEN  I  was  strong  enough  to  leave  the  house  I 
went  out  hand  in  hand  with  Michael,  as  formerly. 
I  had  forgotten  —  or  I  chose  to  forget  —  the  vow 
made  to  my  mother  in  former  days.  But  my 
walks  with  dear  old  Mike  were  much  briefer  now 
than  they  had  once  been.  Sometimes  I  would 
have  to  return  with  my  arm  hanging  wearily  on 
his,  though  each  day  made  me  stronger. 

My  mother  had  meanwhile  greatly  altered. 
She  had  not,  like  myself,  fallen  prostrate  under 
the  shock  of  that  hideous  news,  but  it  had  laid 
upon  her,  none  the  less,  a  few  signal  traces.  She 
had  grown  thinner,  and  the  liquid  darkness  of  her 
beautiful  eyes  held  a  more  wistful  gleam.  At 
times  it  seemed  as  if  the  terror  had  never  quite 
left  her  face  —  as  if  through  the  rest  of  her  life 
she  would  always  be  expecting,  dreading  some 
new  calamitous  thing.  A  slight  sound  would 
make  her  start;  a  sudden  current  of  air  would 
cause  her  to  shiver,  or  to  bend  like  a  blown  reed. 
He  whom  she  still  so  stubbornly  loved  was  now 
an  image  clad  in  fear,  almost  in  the  red  garb  of 
crime.  And  I  am  sure  that  this  shape  never 


72  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

quitted  her  mental  vision  —  that  it  was  stamped 
there  as  indelibly  as  if  it  had  been  a  scar  on  her 
flesh.  She  saw  my  father  in  all  phases  of  inward 
agony.  She  realized  what  he  suffered  and  why  he 
suffered  it.  She  pitied  him  and  longed  to  help 
him.  Meanwhile,  she  could  do  nothing.  Nothing 
but  hide  from  him !  It  is  not  a  pleasure  to  love 
in  that  way.  I  think  one  might  truly  call  it  an 
anguish. 

I  had  noticed  for  several  days  certain  signs  in 
my  mother's  demeanor  toward  me  which  seemed 
to  indicate  either  that  she  was  hiding  something 
from  me  which  it  hurt  her  conscience  to  hide,  or 
that  she  was  dubious  about  telling  me  something 
which  she  was  by  no  means  convinced  that  I 
ought  to  hear.  When  we  incessantly  see  and  asso 
ciate  with  only  three  or  four  people  it  is  marvel 
lous  how  swift  is  our  note  of  the  least  change  in 
them. 

"  Is  there  something  you  want  to  tell  me  ?  "  I 
said  to  my  mother,  at  last. 

She  started.  Then  she  smiled  her  melancholy 
smile.  "  I  knew  you  were  an  enchanter,  .Otho," 
she  said,  "  and  I  forgot  that  enchanters  and 
wizards  are  one.  Yes,"  she  went  on,  hesitatingly, 
"there  is  something  I  want  to  tell  you.  Otho,  it 
concerns  .  .  your  father." 

I  was  not  surprised  to  hear  this.  Whom  else 
could  it  concern  ?  "  Well,"  I  questioned.  "  What 
is  it?" 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  73 

My  mother  put  her  arm  about  my  neck  and 
drew  me  to  her  bosom.  "  Otho,  that  lady,  you 
know  —  the  one  he  attacked.  I  want  so  much  to 
see  her  —  to  speak  with  her.  The  desire  to  do  both 
torments  me.  I  might  have  gone  to  her  alone. 
But  I  will  not  go  without  you.  Will  you  go  with 
me,  Otho  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  see  her,  mamma  ? "  I 
asked.  I  put  this  question  mechanically.  I  knew 
why,  quite  well. 

"  It  is  hard  to  answer  you,"  she  said,  hesitat 
ingly.  "  My  chief  reason  is  "... 

"  The  love  you  still  feel  for  him,"  I  broke  in. 
But  I  did  not  speak  reproachfully.  I  was  recall 
ing  her  recent  devotion  through  my  illness.  "  It 
is  wrong,"  I  continued  softly,  "you  know  it  is 
wrong.  It  is  giving  a  clew." 

"A  clew?"  she  said.  "How?  He  is  in  prison 
now.  Why  should  she  tell  him  anything  ?  I 
have  heard  about  her ;  she  is  well  known ;  she  is 
a  lady  of  prominence  here.  She  gives  large  sums 
to  St.  Stephen's  Church,  not  far  away.  There 
could  be  no  possible  danger." 

"  Very  well,"  I  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  will  go 
with  you." 

She  kissed  me  twice  or  thrice,  almost  passion 
ately.  "  We  will  go  to-day,"  she  said. 

We  went  that  afternoon.  I  disapproved  the 
plan,  but  my  heart  was  so  full  of  gratitude,  just 
then,  that  to  refuse  her  what  I  knew  her  whole 


74  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

soul  was  set  upon  doing  seemed  almost  sacri 
legious. 

We  easily  found  Mrs.  Dorian's  house.  It  was 
smart-looking,  with  polished  window-panes  and 
fresh-painted  trellises  on  stoop  and  balcony. 
Lafayette  Place  was  then  a  quarter  of  distinction ; 
even  now  its  breadth  has  more  dignity  than  that 
of  most  New- York  streets,  and  then  the  compara 
tively  even  heights  of  its  buildings  missed  that 
ugly  irregularity  which  we  notice  with  regret  in 
Fifth  or  Madison  Avenues.  A  maid-servant,  tidily 
garbed,  admitted  us.  We  were  shown  without 
delay  into  such  a  drawing-room  as  few  of  the 
wealthy  magnates  now  possess.  Its  doors  were  of 
heavy,  panelled  mahogany  that  shone  like  glass. 
Its  furniture  was  of  hair-cloth,  and  its  mirrors  rose 
from  the  rather  sombrely  carpeted  floor  to  the 
plain  white  ceiling,  with  no  frames  except  a  slim, 
beaded  verge  of  gilt.  It  would  strike  me  to-day, 
no  doubt,  as  very  bare  and  dull ;  but  years  had 
to  elapse  before  Queen  Anne  structures  would 
rise  in  the  region  of  Central  Park,  modish  with 
tiled  mantels  and  effective  wainscots,  and  I  then 
thought  it  all  quite  elegant  and  imposing.  My 
mother  had  spoken  a  few  words  to  the  servant 
which  were  both  too  low  and  too  quick  for  my 
hearing.  I  suppose  they  were  simply  a  brief  ex 
pression  of  her  strong  desire  to  see  Mrs.  Dorian. 

And  very  soon  Mrs.  Dorian  appeared.  The 
instant  she  did  so  I  detected  her  striking  resem- 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  75 

blance  to  my  mother.  She  was  a  trifle  taller, 
however,  and  carried  herself  with  a  much  more 
assertive  air.  And  yet  if  you  regarded  her  with 
any  degree  of  scrutiny  you  discovered  that  this 
likeness  was  altogether  superficial.  The  eyes  were 
brighter,  but  smaller ;  the  cut  of  the  features  bore 
no  real  similarity  ;  yet  the  general  contour  of  both 
face  and  figure,  as  also  the  prevalent  tints  of 
coloring,  were  oddly  in  accord  with  those  which 
had  made  her  the  object  of  so  dire  a  mistake. 

The  moment  that  Mrs.  Dorian  began  to  speak 
I  found  myself  forgetting  that  any  resemblance 
whatever  existed.  Her  voice  was  high,  and  with 
a  ring  in  it  like  that  of  a  sweet  bell.  In  speaking 
she  threw  back  her  head  a  little,  and  disposed  her 
self  with  what  is  called  an  air.  But  she  revealed 
no  touch  of  arrogance.  It  was  not  an  unpleasant 
transformation.  It  put  a  gulf  of  difference  be 
tween  my  mother  and  herself,  but  it  developed  the 
sense  of  a  fresh  and  new  personality. 

"  You  said  that  you  wanted  to  see  me  about 
some  important  matter,"  she  began,  using  English 
that  promptly  betrayed  a  slight  foreign  accent. 
She  remained  standing  while  she  thus  spoke,  and 
of  course  addressed  my  mother,  who  had  risen  on 
her  entrance.  She  was  attired  in  flowing  silks  of 
more  than  one  shade,  that  were  somewhat  odd  in 
make  but  extremely  tasteful. 

"  I  did  wish  very  much  to  see  you,"  answered 
my  mother,  in  tones  that  made  clear  her  keen 


76  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

excitement.  "  And  for  this  reason  I  must  lose  no 
time  in  telling  you  just  who  I  am.  I  "  — 

But  here  Mrs.  Dorian  went  quickly  nearer  to 
her,  giving  a  sharp  exclamation.  Her  e}'es  had 
widened  with  evident  astonishment.  "  You — you 
are  the  image  of  myself! "  she  broke  forth.  "  Good 
Heavens  !  perhaps  you  are  she  !  Perhaps : —  yes, 
you  must  be  his  wife  !  " 

My  mother  smiled.  There  was  a  pained  relief 
in  the  smile ;  she  had  been  spared  a  disclosure 
deplored  though  sought.  "  I  am  the  wife  of 
Leopold  Clauss,"  she  said,  using  her  own  language 
as  if  unconsciously.  And  the  next  instant  she 
dropped  into  a  chair,  weak  and  unstrung. 

Mrs.  Dorian  at  once  took  a  seat  at  her  side. 
She  peered  with  eager  scrutiny  into  my  mother's 
face.  Her  next  words  were  also  in  French,  and 
so  fleet  that  they  seemed  to  leap  from  her  lips. 

"  You  are  she,  then  I  I  have  thought  of  you  so 
often !  That  terrible  affair  had,  after  all,  such  a 
romantic  touch !  And  I  love  all  things  that  are 
quaint  and  extraordinary.  Our  resemblance  is 
both.  I  am  very  glad  you  came  to  me.  Of  course 
you  dreaded  to  come.  .  .  It  is  wonderful  how  we 
look  alike.  I  have  always  doubted  it  until  now. 
And  yet  we  are  so  different — I  perceive  this  in  a 
moment ;  it  is  easy  to  perceive.  .  .  Ah,  that 
dreadful  matter  was  such  a  shock  to  me  !  I  was 
ill  for  days  because  of  it.  My  friends  said  I  was 
foolish  to  do  what  I  did.  My  friends  are  always 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  77 

saying  that  I  am  foolish  to  do  what  I  do.  By 
'  friends '  I  mean  the  people  who  carp  and  rail  at 
one  for  nothing.  I  have  no  friends.  I  have  only 
one  friend,  that  is ;  I  mean  mj-self,  and  she  is  also 
quite  often  my  enemy.  But  do  you  know  what  I 
did  ?  I  went  to  see  your  husband.  I  visited  him 
in  his  cell." 

"  You  saw  him  ?  "  faltered  my  mother. 

"  Yes.  I  felt  like  someone  in  a  novel  by  Bal 
zac.  It  was  so  delightful  to  feel  like  someone  in 
a  novel  by  Balzac.  I  mean  the  great  Frenchman 
—  our  countryman  —  who  wrote  those  superb 
tales  that  seem  to  be  alive  while  you  read  them ; 
the  printed  lines  are  to  me  like  little  veins  with 
real  blood  running  red  through  each  of  them." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  my  mother  murmured. 
She  did  not  know  of  Balzac,  or  at  best  he  was  a 
mere  name  to  her. 

Mrs.  Dorian  gave  a  light,  soft  laugh  that  had  no 
jar  in  it ;  pity  alone  seemed  to  dwell  there.  "  I 
know,  I  know,  my  poor  woman,"  she  said,  laying 
a  hand  on  my  mother's  arm.  "  You  do  not  under 
stand,  and  you  want  to  hear  of  your  husband, 
who  in  turn  wanted  to  kill  you.  You  need  not 
tell  me  that  you  still  care  for  him.  I  knew  it 
some  minutes  ago.  I  think,  truly,  that  I  have 
known  it  for  months.  He  is  a  monster  of  jeal 
ousy  ;  he  is  also  a  madman ;  but  he  is  a  wonder 
fully  fascinating  monster  and  madman.  He  has 
the  shape  and  face  of  an  old  Norse  god.  He  re- 


78  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

ceivecl  me  with  a  scowl,  but  it  was  such  a  mag 
nificent  scowl.  There  was  a  strong  light ;  it  was 
midday,  you  know.  He  saw  plainly  enough  that 
I  was  not  you.  I  did  not  go  into  the  cell  alone, 
of  course.  But  if  I  had  gone  alone  there  would 
have  been  no  danger.  He  simply  did  not  wish 
me  there,  and  that  was  all.  He  would  tell  me 
nothing;  he  sat  staring  at  the  floor,  and  he  an 
swered  all  my  questions  in  monosyllables.  I  could 
get  no  satisfaction  from  him  —  none  whatever. 
He  would  not  speak  of  you ;  he  would  not  even 
speak  of  himself.  He  grumbled  a  sort  of  apology 
to  me  for  having  wanted  to  murder  me.  It  was 
immensely  interesting ;  it  was  what  I  should  call 
a  thrilling  experience  ;  and  one  gets  so  few  thrill 
ing  experiences  in  a  huge  overgrown  village  like 
this  New- York,  where  I  am  forced  to  live  for 
horrid  commercial  reasons  that  concern  my  poor 
dead  husband's  business.  But  in  spite  of  his 
surly  treatment  I  went  away  from  him  with  a 
kind  of  glow.  I  had  been  brought  face  to  face 
with  raw,  naked  human  nature.  And  I  insisted 
on  forming  my  own  conclusions,  though  people 
laughed  at  me  in  their  superior  wisdom.  I  in 
sisted  that  his  jealousy  —  which  was  like  some 
thing  fresh  from  the  Middle  Ages,  with  all  the 
coarse,  bloodthirsty  color  of  that  period  —  had  for 
its  object  some  true,  kind  little  woman  who  had 
loved  him  and  never  wronged  him.  And  now  I 
have  only  to  look  at  you  and  feel  certain  I  was 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  79 

right.  You  see,  I  am  constantly  judging,  conclud 
ing,  from  impulse  and  instinct.  Anyone  who  does 
that  is  always  held  to  be  more  or  less  insane.  I 
am  not  at  all  insane,  and  I  did  it  in  this  instance, 
and  am  convinced  that  I  formed  a  correct  opinion. 
You  do  care  for  him  still,  though  he  has  treated 
you  infamously.  I  can  understand  it ;  I  have  only 
to  look  at  you  well  in  order  to  understand  it.  I 
have  seen  him,  and  it  is  all  clear  to  me.  English 
women,  American  women,  are  often  clever,  but 
they  have  neither  the  depth  nor  breadth  of  a 
clever  Frenchwoman.  We  do  not  merely  see 
through  things ;  we  possess  imagination,  which  is 
an  enormous  help  to  reason." 

Mrs.  Dorian  and  my  mother  spoke  on  together 
for  a  good  hour.  Or  perhaps  I  should  state  that 
only  Mrs.  Dorian  spoke,  for  the  pauses  were  rare 
in  her  buoyant,  rattling  monologue.  During  these 
she  would  listen,  but  my  mother  had,  after  all, 
little  to  communicate.  She  had  come  but  for  one 
purpose,  and  this  had  failed.  She  had  hoped  to 
find  out  more  concerning  my  father,  his  present 
frame  of  mind,  his  health,  even  his  baleful  grudge 
against  herself.  But  Mrs.  Dorian  could  tell  her 
nothing,  except  that  he  had  looked  very  hand 
some  and  treated  her  with  great  sullenness.  Two 
women  were  never  more  mentally  unlike  than  my 
mother  and  this  lady.  One  was  all  gravity  and 
stability,  the  other  all  volatile  flightiness.  Mrs. 
Dorian  was  a  kind  of  intellectual  Proteus,  in  fact 


80  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

—  as  I  remember  years  afterward  calling  her. 
To  meet  her  every  day  for  a  month  was  to  dis 
cover  that  she  had  received  at  least  thirty  distinct 
sets  of  impressions.  She  afterward  would  often 
make  me  think  of  her  as  of  a  person  who  has  come 
into  our  planet  on  an  exploring  expedition  — who 
has  been  given  just  so  much  time  to  look  about 
and  no  more,  and  who  is  determined  to  do  as 
much  observing,  thinking  and  feeling  as  may  be 
possible  within  the  allotted  sojourn.  But  though 
a  weather-vane  of  change  in  many  ways,  this 
woman  had  much  fixity  of  principle,  of  conduct, 
of  moral  ideal.  She  enjoyed  life,  on  the  other 
hand,  because  she  got  a  great  deal  out  of  it ;  what 
made  her  not  enjoy  it  thoroughly  was  because  she 
could  not  get  as  much  out  of  it  as  she  wanted 
to  get.  Her  receptivity  was  greater  than  the 
resources  of  her  environment.  She  adored  Paris, 
where  she  had  been  born,  and  undoubtedly  its 
brilliance  and  its  activity  would  at  all  times  have 
made  her  most  fitting  world.  She  had  read  every 
thing,  and  was  constantly  having  some  new  literary 
idol,  whom  she  would  soon  desert  for  one  still 
newer.  With  the  exception  of  Balzac  (whose 
multiformity  and  versatility  seemed  in  letters  a 
semblance  of  what  she  herself  was  in  life)  she  was 
always  forgetting  the  worship  of  to-day  for  that  of 
to-morrow.  The  great  French  novelist,  romancer 
and  poet  held  a  secure  niche  in  her  memory,  her 
affection.  Others  came  and  went ;  he  staid. 


TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  81 

It  was  natural  enough  that  one  of  such  a  tem 
perament  as  this  should  confuse  and  weary  my 
simple-minded  mother.  But  Mrs.  Dorian  inter 
ested  me  sharply,  young  as  I  then  was,  though  of 
course  there  was  much  of  what  she  said  that  I 
failed  wholly  to  understand.  Indeed,  the  words 
which  I  have  already  put  into  her  mouth  must  not 
be  taken  as  literal  or  authentic.  They  are  both 
only  so  far  as  my  childish  memory  may  be  trusted, 
and  a  failure  to  catch  the  sense  of  more  than  one 
brisk  sentence  as  it  then  left  her,  has  compelled 
its  omission  from  among  those  which  maturer 
powers  help  me  to  recall. 

Her  notice  of  myself  was  like  a  sudden  discov 
ery.  Her  eyes  lighted  upon  me  as  if  by  chance, 
and  a  little  cry  followed.  She  hurried  toward  me 
and  drew  me  back  to  where  she  had  been  seated. 
"  And  this  is  your  child !  "  she  exclaimed  to  my 
mother.  "  How  beautiful  he  is  !  He  is  you,  and 
yet  he  is  his  father  as  well.  Those  great  dark 
eyes,  with  the  curving  lashes,  are  yours,  and  cer 
tain  delicate  lines  of  the  face,  too.  But  the  blond 
hair,  and  the  nose,  the  mouth  —  these  his  hand 
some  father  gave  him.  Oh,  what  an  enchanting 
boy  !  "  Here  she  kissed  my  cheek  many  times ; 
there  was  a  perfume  like  lavender  about  the  soft 
silks  of  her  attire  that  made  it  a  pleasure  to  be 
near  them.  "  How  stupid  of  me  not  to  have  no 
ticed  him  before !  I  love  children,  always  ;  they 
are  dwellers  in  a  world  that  we  may  never  enter, 


82  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

no  matter  how  closely  we  clasp  them  to  our  hearts. 
But  when  they  are  so  lovely  as  this  boy  of  yours 
their  world  seems  like  a  garden  in  some  other 
star.  .  .  But  I  must  not  flatter  you,  mon  petit. 
Your  beauty  will  be  so  much  the  sweeter  while 
you  do  not  think  about  it."  .  .  .  And  now  Mrs. 
Dorian  drew  out  a  tiny  watch  from  her  belt ;  I 
remember  how  it  caught  my  eye  at  once ;  it  was 
oddly  enamelled,  and  quaint,  like  everything  she 
wore.  "  Bah  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  have  to  meet 
some  dreadful  commercial  creatures  in  ten  min 
utes  ;  I  fear  my  carriage  has  already  arrived. 
When  shall  I  be  freed  from  the  necessity  of  talk 
ing  about  what  I  do  not  at  all  comprehend  with 
persons  who  try  to  make  me  suppose  that  they  do 
not  perceive  my  own  stupidity  and  ennui  ?  That  is 
it  —  I  am  stupid  because  I  am  so  ennuySe.  You 
see,  my  dear  Madame  Clauss,  my  husband  died 
and  left  me  a  great  responsibility.  Everyone 
knows  the  house  of  Dorian  &  Company,  importers 
of  silks.  But  the  'Company '  is  a  mere  sham.  Now 
that  my  husband  is  gone,  I  represent  him,  solely 
and  absolutely.  At  first  I  wanted  to  stop  the 
business.  My  friends  shrieked  at  me  with  dis 
gust  :  '  What !  stop  a  superb  business  like  that ! 
Choke  up  a  channel  through  which  precious 
wealth  flows  to  the  nation !  It  would  be  unpar 
donable.'  Then  I  wanted  to  sell  the  whole 
enormous  affair,  patronage,  connections,  name, 
everything,  as  one  would  sell  a  horse  or  a  thresh- 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  83 

ing-inachine.  Again  my  friends  shrieked  at  me, 
after  every  offer  which  I  received :  '  What !  sell 
so  splendid  a  business  for  a  mere  song  like  that ! ' 
Ma  foi!  I  could  do  nothing  for  weeks  except 
wonder  what  I  ought  to  do.  Meanwhile  my 
friends  shrieked :  '  Get  some  man  whom  you  can 
trust,  and  place  the  whole  affair  under  his  control 
at  a  handsome  salary.'  But  this  made  me  weep 
with  vexation  one  minute  and  laugh  with  amuse 
ment  the  next.  Some  man  whom  I  could  trust, 
indeed !  I  have  always  made  it  a  point  to  trust 
everybody  whom  I  know  nothing  at  all  against. 
It  is  to  me  so  dreadful  for  one  not  to  do  that ! 
And  as  for  selecting  any  particular  person  in 
whom  to  repose  my  faith,  that  seemed  none  the 
less  venturesome  and  experimental.  But  in  a  lit 
tle  while  I  woke  to  the  fact  that  I  had  been  trust 
ing,  ever  since  I  was  a  widow,  an  old  confidential 
clerk  of  my  husband's,  a  creature  as  juiceless  as  a 
hickory-nut,  all  wrinkles  and  rheumatism  and  dis 
cretion.  His  name  was  Gredge,  and  after  a  long 
interview  with  him  I  resolved  upon  the  perpetra 
tion  of  a  tremendous  deception,  a  huge  hypocrisy. 
Gredge  was  my  tempter,  and  I  yielded.  The 
world  to-day  believes  that  I  carry  on,  with  consum 
mate  cleverness,  the  great  business  of  Dorian  & 
Co.  But  Gredge  is  at  once  my  mask  of  guile  and 
my  staff  of  support.  If  he  should  die,  the  mask 
would  fall,  and  the  staff  would  crack.  I  should 
be  exposed  as  a  lamentable  fraud.  As  it  is,  I 


84  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

have  only  to  look  wise,  to  glance  over  accounts  in 
the  presence  of  other  semi-superiors,  and  to  cough 
with  dignity.  It  is  astonishing  with  what  dignity 
I  have  learned  how  to  cough.  I  have  somehow 
got  an  idea  that  it  is  this  cough,  and  nothing  else, 
which  saves  me  from  having  my  reputation  igno- 
miniously  shattered  as  a  woman  of  great  mercan 
tile  shrewdness.  I  think  that  I  learned  the  cough 
from  Gredge  ;  he  has  one  a  good  deal  like  it.  He 
alone  possesses  the  secret  of  my  gross  incapacity. 
But  he  is  an  accomplice  not  to  be  corrupted.  I 
glance  over  accounts  which  seem  to  me  a  chaos  of 
figures.  I  nod ;  I  cough  ;  I  make  believe  that  I 
am  adding  them  up  and  confirming  the  result. 
En  effet,  I  detest  figures,  and  the  multiplication- 
table  has  always  been  to  me  an  enigma.  I  have 
a  conviction  that  CEdipus  asked  the  Sphinx 
how  much  was  nine-times-nine  or  eleven-times, 
eleven,  and  that  for  this  reason  she  cast  herself 
into  the  sea.  .  .  But  if  Gredge  should  die  !  — 
that  thought  perpetually  torments  me.  Gredge  is 
meanwhile  a  hundred  years  old,  or  a  hundred  and 
fifty  —  I  never  can  just  remember  which.  But  he 
is  not  immortal.  Even  a  Gredge  must  one  day 
perish.  And  then  I  shall  have  nobody  in  whom  I 
can  repose  the  least  faith  as  a  protective  accom 
plice.  ...  But  now  I  must  say  adieu,  for  my  per 
secutors  are  awaiting  me  in  an  august  body.  You 
must  come  to  me  again  — you  and  your  charming 
boy.  And  if  you  are  ever  in  need,  be  sure  that 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  85 

help  you.  That  is  all.  I  will  not  say 
more  on  that  subject.  I  might  wound  you,  and 
I  see  that  you  are  easily  wounded.  I  wish  only 
to  show  that  I  do  not  bear  a  shadow  of  malice  for 
—  well,  you  know  what.  When  you  go  home  and 
think  me  over  you  will  wonder  at  my  having 
received  you  thus.  You  will  say  to  yourself  that 
nobody  else  in  the  whole  world  would  have  done 
it.  And  that  is  what  I  shall  like.  I  always  like 
to  be  thought  different  from  anyone  else  in  the 
whole  world !".... 

When  we  left  Mrs.  Dorian's  house  and  were 
once  more  in  the  street,  I  began  to  speak  of  her 
with  praise,  enthusiasm.  But  my  mother  did  not 
share  my  mood. 

"  She  is  a  strange  person,  Otho,"  was  her  slow, 
meditative  comment.  "  I  do  not  know  that  I  like 
her,  for  all  that  she  seems  so  kind  and  good." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  that  she  is  both  !  "  I  answered, 
warmly.  "I  am  sure  that  she  meant  all  she 
said !  " 

"There  was  a  great  deal  that  she  did  not  mean," 
my  mother  returned.  "  Or,  at  least  I  could  not 
help  thinking  so.  Still,  this  may  be  because  I 
have  never  known  persons  of  her  class.  Very 
often  she  seemed  to  speak  as  if  she  did  not  expect 
you  to  believe  her.  True,  this  was  only  when  she 
spoke  of  herself  —  not  when  she  offered  us  help, 
or  anything  like  that.  I  am  not  certain  that  she 
is  not  good  and  kind.  So  many  ladies  would  have 


86  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

shrunk  from  us  after  .  .  after  what  has  happened. 
Perhaps  they  would  have  ordered  their  servants  to 
make  us  go  away  at  once.  They  would  have  been 
alarmed  at  our  very  presence.  .  .  But  I  know  so 
little  of  ladies  like  herself.  I  have  never  seen  any 
of  them  before.  I  may  be  quite  wrong  in  my 
judgment.  I  .  .  I  went,  as  you  must  have  guessed, 
to  hear  something  about  your  papa.  And  she  could 
tell  me  so  little.  I  did  not  dream  of  any  help 
from  her.  I  wish  she  had  not  spoken  of  giving 
me  any  help.  If  I  were  in  great  want  she  would 
be  the  last  person  living  to  whom  I  should  appty." 

"  You  went,"  I  returned,  with  blunt  frankness, 
"  because  you  thought  she  could  tell  you  a  great 
deal  about  papa.  And  now  you  are  disappointed. 
I  think  she  is  very  nice ;  I  like  her.  Whether 
she  meant  it  all  or  no,  mamma,  I  was  somehow 
pleased  with  everything  she  said.  There  was  a 
great  deal  she  said  which  I  did  not  understand, 
for  I  am  not  old  enough.  But  I  remember  much 
of  it,  and  if  I  ever  meet  her  again,  when  I  grow 
older,  I  shall  be  able  to  make  much  of  it  clear.  I 
shall  have  learned  more  then ;  I  shall  have  studied 
and  learned." 

"  You  know  all  that  I  can  teach  you  already, 
Otho,"  said  my  mother,  as  we  walked  along.  "  He 
is  in  prison  now.  He  will  be  there  for  two  years. 
That  is  his  time  —  two  years.  When  you  are 
stronger,  will  you  go  to  school  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said.     I  was  thinking  of  Mrs.  Dorian. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  87 

She  had  fascinated  me  ;  I  wanted  to  learn  more, 
so  that  I  could  find  a  path  into  knowledge  and 
education  like  hers.  "  Yes,"  I  went  on,  "  I  will 
go  to  school,  as  you  wished  before  I  was  ill.  But 
this  lady,  mamma  ?  Shall  we  visit  her  again  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  my  mother,  decisively. 

And  we  did  not.  In  a  month  or  so  I  went  to 
the  school  formerly  proposed.  It  was  a  large 
brick  building,  filled  with  shabby  and  plebeian 
scholars.  These  were  all  boys,  and  the  teachers, 
except  in  a  few  of  the  senior  classes,  were  all 
women.  The  classes  were  designated  by  letters 
of  the  alphabet,  A  meaning  the  highest  grade  of 
attainment  for  any  pupil,  and  final  entrance  into 
what  was  then  the  Free  Academy  and  is  now  the 
College  of  New-York.  (The  word  "  free  "  had  to 
perish ;  it  bore  quite  too  offensive  a  sound  for 
certain  republican  ears.)  I  went  for  two  years  to 
this  "  ward  school,"  as  they  termed  it,  and  I  can 
not  say  that  they  were  happy  years,  or  morally 
improving  ones.  In  the  first  place,  the  three 
teachers  under  whose  successive  tutelage  a  rather 
rapid  promotion  placed  me,  were  women  of  much 
inherent  vulgarity  and,  as  naturally  followed,  of 
ill-governed  tempers.  But  it  would  almost  have 
required  an  aureoled  saint,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
deal  unruffled  with  some  of  the  imps  and  elves 
who  trooped  every  morning  into  those  plain,  dull, 
cheerless  rooms,  arid  sat  upon  their  tiers  of  gaunt 
wooden  benches.  My  three  teachers  were  all  very 


88  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

unsaintly  women  indeed.  But  I  pitied  them  all. 
Their  tasks  were  hateful  to  them  on  account  of 
the  excessive  badness  and  mischief  with  which 
they  were  forever  confronted.  They  had  all  three 
dropped  into  the  habit  of  being  incessantly  cross, 
because  stern  measures  were  so  often  required  of 
them.  They  could  not  say  the  simplest  thing  to 
their  scholars  (myself  alone  excepted)  without 
giving  a  sour  frown,  a  biting  curtness,  a  tang  of 
sarcasm,  to  the  remark.  If  either  of  them  had 
once  addressed  us  in  a  tone  of  real  kindliness  we 
would  have  felt  something  very  like  consternation. 
Overworked,  often  forced  to  master  on  the  pre 
vious  nights  many  of  the  lessons  which  they  heard 
us  recite  during  the  day,  ill-fed,  compelled  to 
brave  the  worst  weathers  in  garments  not  always 
of  the  most  resistant  sort,  it  is  far  from  strange 
that  these  women  were  incessantly  out  of  health. 
One  was  always  putting  her  hand  to  her  head  as 
if  a  twinge  of  pain  stabbed  it ;  another  had  a 
hacking  cough  ;  a  third  seemed  at  times  nearly 
choked  by  a  catarrhal  trouble.  And  whenever 
their  maladies  were  most  acute  the  boys  were 
sure  to  be  most  contumacious.  Every  morning  at 
nine  o'clock,  and  every  afternoon  at  the  hour  of 
dismissal,  (three  o'clock,  I  believe)  we  had  to 
assemble  in  an  immense  dreary  room  over  whose 
doorways  were  written  mottoes  from  Scripture, 
such  as  "  Deliver  us  from  evil,"  or  "  A  wise  son 
maketh  a  glad  father."  This  coming  together  was 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  89 

like  a  gathering  of  the  clans.  We  would  march 
in  single  file  from  our  respective  class-rooms  to 
the  sound  of  a  jingling  piano  lamely  played  by 
one  of  the  teachers.  Then  the  Bible  (which  Irish 
priestcraft  has  since  endeavored  to  abolish  from 
our  public  schools)  was  read  to  us  for  about  ten 
minutes  by  the  principal,  Mr.  Barlowe.  Mr.  Bar- 
lowe  was  a  handsome  man,  with  a  tall,  muscular 
figure,  a  metallic  kind  of  eye,  and  a  large  glossy 
black  beard.  As  I  look  back  upon  him  he  seems 
to  me  the  incarnation  of  relentless  cruelty.  If 
the  public  schools  yet  retain  their  Bible,  they 
have,  however,  sent  adrift  something  decidedly 
more  worthy  of  exorcism.  I  mean  corporal  pun 
ishment.  It  is  terrible  to  recollect  the  torture 
that  Mr.  Barlowe  inflicted  with  his  slim,  biting 
rattan.  Every  afternoon  he  would  appear  to  us, 
like  an  executioner  among  a  throng  of  shivering 
criminals.  Miss  Budd  or  Miss  Jenks  or  Miss 
Moriarty  (those  were  the  names  of  my  three 
teachers)  would  hand  him  the  fatal  list  of  his 
victims.  Unless  the  latter  had  committed  some 
special  offence,  these  ladies  would  use  only  the  one 
significant  word  "  disorderly."  Then  the  con 
demned  ones  were  forced  to  rise,  and  then  a  hideous 
castigation  would  begin.  Mr.  Barlowe  would  make 
his  lithe  switch  descend  upon  their  hands,  which 
they  were  forced  to  put  forward  and  to  open.  I 
have  a  conviction  that  the  agony  of  those  helpless, 
cowering  urchins  gave  Mr.  Barlowe  a  sharp  pleas- 


90  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

ure.  Some  of  the  boys  used  to  put  resin  on  their 
hands  to  prevent  the  pain  of  the  blows.  The 
boys  were  bad  enough,  but  Mr.  Barlowe,  in  his 
handsome,  insolent  pride  of  office,  was  worse  than 
they.  No  stroke  of  his  vile  rattan  ever  wrought 
the  least  good,  and  yet  he  exerted  it,  day  after 
day,  like  the  hard-grained  tyrant  that  he  was.  I 
have  learned,  in  succeeding  years,  that  Mr.  Bar 
lowe  has  gained  a  name  and  almost  a  fame  as  a 
public  school  principal.  But  now  that  decency 
has  wrested  from  him  his  rattan,  I  cannot  imagine 
what  sceptre  he  uses,  since  his  former  rule  was  so 
thoroughly  wrong  and  base. 

I  used  to  tell  Michael,  after  school-hours,  of 
how  he  punished  the  refractory  boys.  Mike's 
grim  face  would  cloud  as  he  heard  my  tales. 
"  Shure,  an'  if  he  ever  goes  fur  you,  Otho,"  Mike 
would  say,  "jusht  tell  me,  an'  it'll  be  putty  closhe 
quarters  betune  oi  an'  him." 

But  Mr.  Barlowe  never  "went  for"  me.  I 
gave  good  recitations,  as  a  rule,  and  obeyed  com 
mands.  Still,  I  secretly  despised  the  discipline 
which  made  fear  of  personal  hurt  a  reason  for 
proper  conduct.  I  soon  grew  to  think  Mr.  Bar- 
lowe's  system  revolting,  as  so  many  right-minded 
people  afterward  held  it. 

Once  he  wanted  to  strike  me,  and  was  pre 
vented.  Usually  obedient  and  tractable,  I  had 
been,  on  a  certain  day,  peevish  and  wilful.  At 
the  end  of  the  names  which  the  teacher  gave  him, 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  91 

mine  was  clearly  though  rather  faintly  uttered. 
I  rose  when  I  heard  my  name.  As  I  did  so  I 
clenched  my  hands  behind  my  back  till  the  nails 
almost  bit  into  the  flesh.  A  sudden  swift  look 
from  my  teacher  warned  me  to  reseat  myself. 
But  I  did  not  heed  the  look.  I  stood  and 
waited. 

Seven  or  eight  boys  were  mercilessly  flogged. 
It  came  my  turn.  I  still  stood.  Mr.  Barlowe 
advanced  toward  me.  He  started  as  he  saw  my 
face,  and  turned  toward  my  teacher.  And  then 
she  too  perceived  that  I  was  standing.  She  waved 
both  hands  and  hurried  to  Mr.  Barlowe's  side. 
"  No,  no,"  she  said. 

I  saw  them  whisper  together.  I  heard  them, 
also.  I  caught  the  words  "  best  boy  I  have  "  — 
"a  little  unruly  to-day  —  never  mind  for  once" 
as  they  left  my  teacher's  lips.  But  I  still  stood 
firm.  "Why  not?"  I  heard  Mr.  Barlowe  say,  as 
he  shot  a  look  at  me  from  under  his  fine  arched 
eyebrows.  And  then,  with  the  rattan  still  fresh 
from  previous  torture,  he  drew  near  to  me. 

I  clenched  my  hands  still  closer.  I  thought  of 
what  Mike  had  said,  and  of  what  he  could  do. 
I  longed  to  have  him  there  then,  but  he  was  not 
there,  and  I  must  fight  alone. 

I  meant  to  fight,  as  Mr.  Barlowe  said  to  me 
"  Hold  out  your  hand,  sir."  I  did  not  hold  out 
my  hand.  And  just  then  the  teacher  rushed  for 
ward  and  grasped  Mr.  Barlowe's  stout  arm.  "No, 


92  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

no,"  she  expostulated,  "  not  that !  I  did  not 
mean  that  for  him  !  " 

Mr.  Barlowe  here  motioned  for  me  to  sit.  I 
seated  myself.  If  he  had  struck  me  that  day  it 
would  have  been  a  day  for  him  to  remember. 

But  very  soon  afterward  the  teacher  took  me 
aside  and  begged  me  to  forgive  having  mentioned 
my  name  among  those  doomed  for  punishment. 
I  heard  her  in  silence.  She  was  penitent,  as  I 
readily  saw,  but  I  could  not  forgive  her  just  yet. 

Meanwhile  something — let  it  be  called  a  spell, 
a  witchery,  whatever  he  who  now  reads  may 
choose  to  call  it  —  had  put  me  apart  from  all  the 
other  pupils.  My  intelligence  was  such  that  I 
could  easily  master  every  task  assigned  me,  and 
in  each  branch  of  study  I  always  held  the  highest 
rank.  My  teachers  petted,  humored,  and  would 
have  caressed  me  if  I  had  permitted  them.  My 
classmates,  without  a  single  exception,  paid  me 
a  deference  which  resembled  homage.  I  often 
treated  them  haughtily,  and  selected  from  them 
my  favorites  at  the  prompting  of  caprice.  Some 
of  them  were  sadly  uncouth,  and  of  unbridled 
license  in  speech.  But  none  of  them  ever  pre 
sumed  to  address  me  except  in  decently  courteous 
phrases.  It  was  remarkable  how  I  managed  to 
win  everybody  over  without  indeed  managing  at 
all.  I  do  not  boast ;  I  chronicle.  Boys  of  from 
twelve  to  fifteen  years,  when  they  are  boys  reared 
in  homes  of  poverty,  ignorance,  and  even  of  sin  as 


TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  93 

well,  are  too  often  the  grossest  animal  products. 
I  saw  not  a  few  of  this  sort,  and  in  nearly  all 
cases  I  gave  them  a  wide  berth.  But  my  avoid 
ance  aroused  no  spleen,  no  rancor.  They  seemed 
to  take  for  granted  that  I  not  only  bore  myself  as 
one  above  them  but  that  I  was  justly  and  right 
fully  one  above  them.  They  were  all  somehow 
on  my  side ;  they  appeared  to  be  in  a  manner 
proud  of  me.  I  moved  among  them  like  a  little 
prince.  Many  of  them  would  have  waited  on  me 
as  servants  on  a  master  if  I  had  made  a  sign  that 
such  was  my  wish.  I  never  tried  to  account  for 
it  all;  I  never,  in  those  days,  gave  it  a  thought; 
I  had  not  the  slightest  sense  of  triumph.  It  had 
become  a  matter-of-course  with  me  that  every 
body  should  like  me.  If  any  of  them  had  shown 
me  the  least  insolence  or  disrespect  I  would  have 
resented  it  with  heat.  But  none  of  them  ever 
did.  In  most  boyish  sports  I  took  pleasure,  and 
acquitted  myself  with  skill.  But  in  these  I  chose 
only  certain  associates,  and  always  found  my  ex 
clusive  tendencies  treated  with  respect.  When 
ever  I  descended  during  recess  into  the  ugly 
flagged  courtyard  where  the  boys  romped  and 
shouted,  I  had  a  small  throng  of  picked  com 
panions  ready  at  once  to  gather  about  me.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  I  inspired  in  these  a  good  deal  of 
genuine  affection.  But  I  gave  them  very  little 
in  return.  They  were  playmates  of  the  hour, 
nothing  more.  I  had  the  unconscious  art  or  trick, 


94  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

or  whatever  it  was,  of  attracting  whom  I  chose 
to  attract.  My  mother  had  been  perfectly  right. 
I  was  born  to  win  people  by  a  smile,  a  glance,  a 
sentence. 

And  in  this  way  two  years  glided  along.  Dur 
ing  that  time  I  never  once  alluded  to  my  father 
while  at  home.  But  I  counted  the  months  as 
they  lapsed  onward.  My  mother  often  went  with 
me  into  the  streets,  now.  But  at  length  she 
ceased  to  leave  the  house.  I  knew  why.  It  was 
then  early  spring.  I  said  to  her,  one  day : 

"  You  remain  indoors  because  he  is  out  of  prison. 
Or  at  least  you  know  that  his  term  has  passed." 

She  started,  and  I  saw  her  lips  tremble.  "  Yes, 
Otho,"  she  said. 

"  But  you  cannot  live  like  this,  mamma.  You 
cannot  shut  yourself  up  always.  After  a  while  it 
may  make  you  ill.  After  a  while  it  may  even 
kill  you." 

She  lifted  her  large  dark  eyes  to  mine.  "  If  it 
were  not  for  you,"  she  answered,  "I  should  be- 
very  willing  to  die.  If  it  were  not  for  you,  Otho, 
that  would  be  far  better  than  "... 

She  paused.  I  understood.  The  air  of  the 
room  seemed  to  turn  chill,  as  if  the  breath  from  a 
vault  had  swept  through  it. 

We  had  had  two  years  of  peace,  and  now  the 
old  trouble  and  fear  had  come  back  to  us.  The 
menace  and  the  shadow  were  once  again  over  my 
mother's  mind  and  heart ! 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  95 


V. 


Ix  these  days  I  asked  myself  if  I  could  do  noth 
ing  to  lessen  her  dread  and  uncertainty.  I  wanted 
to  take  some  secret  step,  and  leave  her  unaware 
that  I  had  done  so  until  it  resulted  in  some  sort 
of  assured  success.  With  this  view  I  consulted 
Michael,  my  unswerving  friend  and  ally.  Could 
no  means  be  hit  upon  of  tracing  my  father's 
present  whereabouts?  He  had  undoubtedly  left 
prison.  Might  we  not  succeed  in  learning  if  he 
were  still  in  New  York  and  if  he  still  cherished 
those  murderous  designs  against  his  wife  ?  It  was 
possible  that  immurement  and  the  recollection  of 
his  horrid  mistake  had  tamed  and  calmed  him. 
Perhaps  no  thought  of  seeking  my  mother's  life 
now  fed  brain  and  heart  with  its  fiery  poison.  In 
that  case  how  precious  would  such  news  be  to  us ! 
What  a  load  it  would  lift  from  the  meek,  sorrow 
ful  woman  whose  girlish  love  had  become  mock 
ery,  disaster  and  shame ! 

"  You  nod  your  head  very  knowingly  indeed," 
I  said  to  Michael  one  day,  "  and  you  scratch  it 
with  a  great  show  of  wisdom.  But  you  have  not 
yet  told  me  if  you  can  possibly  get  this  knowledge 


96  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

that  I  so  crave.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  that 
there  must  be  a  way ! " 

Here  Mike  redeemed  himself  from  my  rather 
hasty  charge  of  dulness  by  recommending  an 
application  to  the  police.  The  truth,  he  said,  could 
be  got  at  in  this  way  better  than  in  any  other.  It 
was  not  improbable  that  my  father's  movements 
after  lie  left  prison  had  been  closely  watched. 
Michael  had  several  intimate  friends  on  the  police- 
force.  He  would  sound  one  or  two  of  them 
regarding  the  best  method  of  going  to  work,  since 
of  course  it  was  highly  desirable  that  great  cau 
tion  should  be  used.  We  must  contrive  to  remain 
hidden  while  we  secured  our  knowledge  of  him. 

"  And  if  we  learn,  Mike,"  I  said,  after  approv 
ing  this  plan,  "that  my  father  still  nurses  the 
same  wicked  purpose,  then  it  will  be  our  duty  to 
lodge  some  kind  of  public  complaint  against  him. 
Mamma  cannot  be  made  a  captive  for  years.  I  am 
no  longer  a  child,  and  my  health  is  so  much  better 
than  what  it  was  that  I  am  almost  robust  and 
hearty.  I  feel  that  I  have  a  duty  to  perform,  a 
responsibility  to  discharge.  If  any  thing  should 
happen  now,  after  the  way  in  which  we  were 
warned,  it  would  be  still  more  horrible  for  us, 
because  we  should  hold  ourselves  to  blame.  As  it 
is,  Michael,  let  us  learn  the  facts  if  we  can,  and 
act  accordingly.  And  do  not  mention  even  to 
Martha  what  you  propose  doing." 

Michael,  devoted  soul,  went  to  work  in  great 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  97 

secrecy.  His  friends  on  the  police-force  were  no 
doubt  excellent  aids.  From  day  to  day  he  told 
me  nothing,  and  I  asked  him  no  questions.  But 
meanwhile  he  was  urging  his  stealthy  work  with 
much  tact  and  skill.  He  knew  just  what  I  wanted 
him  to  do  and  how  I  wanted  him  to  do  it.  An 
occasional  word,  and  no  more,  would  apprise  me 
that  he  still  strove  and  persevered.  I  read  his 
faithful  spirit  so  clearly  !  He  had  all  that  is  best 
and  finest  in  his  often-abused  race,  without  its 
marked  powers  of  intellect  which,  when  best  and 
finest,  are  so  frequently  erratic  and  wilful.  His 
was  the  sweet  Irish  nature  that  can  love  with  such 
inexhaustible  warmth,  and  serve  where  it  loves 
with  such  steadfast  devotion.  Brilliancy  has  been 
the  peril  of  his  people.  They  fail  as  great  leaders, 
but  in  all  qualities  of  allegiance  and  fidelity  no 
land  has  eclipsed  them. 

Life  had  for  many  months  flowed  smoothly  in 
our  obscure  little  home,  whither  death  so  con 
stantly  brought  us  its  gloom  and  its  plaint  that  we 
had  grown  to  regard  both  as  commonplace,  like 
the  sure  shade  wrought  naturally  by  the  sunbeam. 
I  could  not  fail  to  see  that  my  mother  took  great 
pride  in  me,  that  she  watched  my  least  act  with 
fond  vigilance,  that  she  rejoiced  at  my  intellectual 
promise,  that  her  old  instinct  of  protection  had 
begun  to  wear  the  hue  of  dependence  and  reliance. 

u  You  are  a  dear  boy,  Otho,"  she  tenderly  said 
to  me  on  a  certain  evening  when  I  bade  her 


98  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

good-night  before  I  went  to  rest  in  my  small  room 
adjoining  her  own.  "  I  hope  you  will  always  be  as 
much  of  a  comfort  to  me  as  you  are  now.  And  I 
hope  everything  will  always  go  as  smoothly  with 
you  as  it  does  now,  chtri" 

"  As  smoothly,  mamma  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  Yes,  Otho.  I  would  not  flatter  you  for  the 
world,  since  that  might  give  you  a  false  estimate 
of  your  own  talents,  and  make  you  prone  to  flaunt 
and  parade  them  unduly.  But  though  you  possess 
talents  quite  beyond  the  common,  I  think  your 
good  sense  is  sound  enough  to  recognize  the  folly 
of  idle  pride  in  their  possession.  And  yet  these, 
like  the  beauty  and  the  charm  of  which  I  am  so 
glad  to  see  you  not  boastful,  render  your  daily 
course  thus  far  a  rarely  easy  one.  Where  other 
boys  of  your  age  toil  and  strain  for  eminence,  you 
win  it  with  scarcely  an  effort.  I  have  so  often 
watched  you  at  your  lessons ;  there  are  some  of 
them  that  your  understanding  and  your  memory 
seize  with  a  strange  speed.  You  are  full  of  gifts! 
The  ills  and  hurts  that  beset  most  lads  have  never 
touched  you  at  all.  I  know  your  career  at  school 
—  you  have  told  me  what  it  has  been.  Everybody 
succumbs  to  you  —  as  I  do,  as  poor  Michael  and 
Martha  do.  It  often  seems  to  me  as  if  you  were 
born  to  be  indulged.  But,  Otho,  you  silently 
accept  too  much  and  give  too  little  in  return.  Be 
careful,  my  son  —  be  careful !  You  do  not  love 
as  you  are  loved.  .  .  I  hate  to  speak  of  this  to 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  99 

you  now,  because  you  are  still  so  young.  But 
some  day  you  will  love.  Some  day  you  will  give 
a  great  love,  and  want  it  repaid  in  full,  and  ques 
tion  yourself  constantly  as  to  whether  it  is  repaid 
in  full.  And  if  it  is  not,  my  boy  —  or  if  you 
should  think  it  is  not,  then  "... 

My  mother's  voice  faltered  here.  I  threw  my 
arms  about  her  neck  and  put  my  lips  to  hers. 
"Oh,  mamma,"  I  said,  "why  do  you  worry  your 
self  with  thoughts  like  these?  It  must  come  of 
your  making  those  sad,  white  shrouds  —  ce  metier 
funebre  !  I  shall  never  love  as  you  say.  I  shall 
never  love  any  one  as  I  love  you.  And  if  I  should 
ever  marry,  you  will  see  my  wife  and  judge  of 
this,  for  you  will  live  many,  many  years — you 
are  still  so  young !  " 

"Many,  many  years?"  she  repeated,  in  a 
strangely  musing  tone. 

"  Yes  —  surely  yes.  Why  not  ?  And  you  must 
not  say  that  I  give  no  love  back,  mamma !  It  is 
cruel  I " 

"  You  do  not  give  the  love  that  is  given  you, 
Otho." 

"  You  judge  me  unfairly,  mamma." 

"  No.  .  .  I  know  you  so  well." 

"Do  you  think  I  do  not  care  for  you  as  you 
care  for  me  ?  "  .  .  I  kissed  her  as  I  spoke. 

With  her  lips  close  to  mine  she  answered :  "No. 
I  must  say  it.  My  heart  tells  me  —  my  mother's 
heart.  You  accept ;  you  are  grateful ;  but  though 


100  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

you  sometimes  embrace  me  and  caress  me  like 
this,  there  is  a  coldness.  .  .  I  cannot  explain  .  .  . 
but  it  is  there.  Oh,  Otho,  it  is  there !  " 

Her  last  word  ended  in  a  kind  of  sob.  She 
had  not  clasped  me  with  her  arms  till  then,  but 
then  she  did  so,  tightly  and  abruptly. 

I  forced  myself  from  their  hold,  however.  She 
had  angered  me,  and  perhaps  a  pang  of  conscience 
fed  this  new  mood.  Between  compunction  and 
accusative  wrath  the  gulf  is  seldom  a  broad  one. 

"  I  see  !  "  came  my  bitter  cry.  "  You  wish  to 
say  that  I  have  no  power  to  love  except  as  he, 
my  father,  loved !  You  wish  to  warn  me  against 
a  fault  which  you  have  no  right  to  dread  because 
you  have  never  yet  had  reason  to  charge  me  with 
it !  Is  this  fair  ?  Is  it  not  unmerciful  ?  " 

"  Otho  !     What  are  you  saying?  " 

But  my  words  sped  on.  "You  tell  me  that 
you  have  loved  me  so  well !  Admit  that  you  have ! 
But  is  your  love  for  me  now,  at  this  moment,  what 
it  is  for  the  man  —  my  father,  if  you  please  —  the 
man  who  wished  to  kill  you  ?  " 

"  Otho.     Do  not  speak  like  that." 

I  caught  her  unwilling  hand.  "  Answer  my 
question ! "  I  demanded,  with  kindling  eyes. 
"  Which  of  us  do  you  love  the  better  at  this  mo 
ment?  Of  which  do  you  think  the  more?  Who 
holds  your  heart  the  more?  Who  fills  your  thought 
the  more?" 

My  speech  must  now  have   been  fierce.     But 


TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  101 

she  felt  the  poignance  of  its  appeal ;  she  perceived 
how  it  clutched  the  bare  fact,  and  presented  this, 
and  demanded  a  clear  response. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  mine  with  force, 
and  then  waved  both  hands  confusedly  before  her 
drooped  face. 

"Answer  me!"  I  exclaimed.  "You  do  love 
him  more  than  you  love  me  !  It  is  true  !  Answer 
me !  If  you  do  not,  I  shall  know  that  this  man 
from  whom  you  are  forced  to  hide,  whose  very 
existence  is  a  threat  to  you,  holds  more  of  your 
heart  than  I  can  ever  gain  !  " 

I  stood  near  her,  with  burning  look,  with  quiv 
ering  nostrils,  with  a  sudden  dreadful  rage  rack 
ing  and  thrilling  me. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  my  face.  She  sprang  to 
her  feet  an  instant  afterward.  Her  expression  was 
one  of  terror,  and  that  alone. 

"  Otho  !  "  she  cried,  wildly.  "  I  see  your  father 
in  you  now  !  His  curse  has  descended  upon  you  !  " 

Her  tones  were  so  shrill  and  keen  that  they 
brought  Martha  from  a  neighboring  room,  in  high 
alarm.  But  before  Martha  entered,  my  mother 
had  sank  back  into  her  chair,  fainting. 

My  rage  (shall  I  say  my  spasm  of  hot  jealousy?) 
had  died  as  I  saw  the  pallor  and  the  backward 
stagger  that  told  me  what  it  had  wrought.  I, 
myself,  unnerved  and  trembling,  let  Martha  do 
what  she  could  toward  resuscitation.  But  when 
those  dark,  eloquent  eyes  met  mine  once  more,  I 


102  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

felt  that  if  I  should  grovel  at  my  mother's  feet  for 
pardon  she  would  be  justified  in  withholding  it. 

And  yet  how  readily  she  gave  it!  A  bitter 
headache  succeeded  her  partial  swoon,  and  when 
I  left  her  bed-chamber  it  was  long  past  midnight. 
But  for  three  or  four  hours  I  lay  sleepless,  dumbly 
horrified  at  the  passionate  outburst  of  which  I  had 
been  guilty. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  Did  it  mean  that  my  father 
had  indeed  stamped  me  with  the  woful  brand  of 
his  own  madness?  This  was  the  second  time 
within  my  experience  that  such  a  paroxysm  had 
caught  me  like  a  whirlwind.  Was  my  will  strong 
enough  to  stand  guard  against  any  third  assault? 

My  will  was  certainly  strong,  and  I  vowed  that 
night  a  most  solemn  and  meaning  vow  to  crush 
down  and  control  a  passion  which  must  need 
stouter  bonds  every  time  that  I  let  it  slip  leash. 
A  belief  in  the  power  and  permanence  of  my  reso- 
tion  brought  with  it  a  more  placid  mood.  But 
not  alone  through  the  next  day  did  a  dull,  slug 
gish  trouble  brood  in  my  breast ;  for  many  days 
afterward  I  seemed  to  see  the  glad  spring  sun 
through  a  dusky  mist.  I  had  realized  that  though 
I  fought  against  these  surges  of  wild  feeling  never 
so  strenuously,  the  source  whence  they  rose,  like 
a  stagnant  and  noisome  pool,  must  hide  itself  in 
my  nature.  That  source  was  jealousy.  And 
strangely  enough,  when  I  now  sought  to  analyze 
the  only  jealousy  my  life  had  thus  far  known,  I 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  103 

found  myself  justifying  and  excusing  it.  My 
mind  would  hurry  along  in  impetuous  and  fervid 
argument.  Was  it  fair,  I  would  ask  myself,  that 
I  should  be  held  in  my  mother's  affection  lower 
than  he  was  held  who  had  wrecked  her  life? 
Ought  I  not  to  expect,  to  demand,  more  than  she 
gave  my  father?  Was  it  not  injustice,  insult,  that 
she  should  accord  me  an  inferior  place?  Had  I 
not  been  right  in  resenting  what  was  truly  a  goad 
for  revolt?  Would  not  many  another  have  felt 
my  mortification,  my  grief? 

But  the  fallacy  of  this  reasoning  might  easily 
have  struck  me,  and  nothing  except  the  bigotry 
and  egotism  of  my  own  master-fault  now  obscured 
it.  For  if  some  strange  current  of  attraction  still 
turned  my  mother's  poor  misused  heart  toward 
him  whom  it  would  have  been  far  better  to  loathe, 
she  had  none  the  less  restrained  all  active  indul 
gence  of  desire,  bravely  and  firmly.  True,  she 
had  done  so  on  my  father's  account;  but  it  had 
been  also  on  my  account.  Her  patient  sacrifice 
should  have  shamed  my  selfishness ! 

It  was  not  long  before  I  told  her  of  my  stanch 
determination,  and  besought  her  pardon  for  what 
had  passed.  It  was  given  with  a  close,  eager 
embrace,  but  I  knew  that  henceforth  a  fresh  dread 
was  to  haunt  her  brain  and  tinge  its  thoughts. 

"  I  will  show  you,  mamma,"  I  said,  "  that  I  am 
not  half  so  much  like  him  as  you  fear." 

"  You  made  me  fear  that  you  were  like  him  in 


104  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

that  one  thing  at  least,  Otho,"  she  answered. 
"But  even  if  you  had  inherited  all  that  is  sinful 
in  him,  with  strength  of  purpose  and  a  little  true 
courage  you  can  remake  your  own  character." 

This  subject  of  heredity  had  just  begun  to 
fascinate  me.  But  as  yet  I  had  scarcely  given  a 
thought  to  the  marvellous  phenomena  of  the  will. 
The  perception  of  how  we  seem  to  be  so  absolutely 
free  and  yet  are  shaped  and  moulded  by  the 
agencies  of  our  environment ;  the  recognition  of 
how  an  immense  sequence  of  mental  conditions, 
from  our  birth  to  the  actual  present  instant,  pre 
cedes,  like  one  long  law  of  iron  necessity,  our 
existent  state ;  the  admission  that  any  least  or 
greatest  act,  from  the  mere  lifting  of  a  hand  to 
the  slaying  of  a  fellow-creature,  inflexibly  follows 
a  thousand  previous  acts,  whether  trivial  or  grave ; 
— all  this  I  had  yet  to  ponder,  to  investigate,  to 
accept.  But  just  now  I  was  not  too  young  to  feel 
awed  and  startled  by  the  thought  that  parentage 
could  fix  traits  and  tendencies  in  its  offspring  as 
inseparable  as  a  finger  or  an  eyebrow.  It  was 
horrible  for  me  to  meditate  upon  the  way  in  which 
all  disease,  whether  of  mind  or  body,  so  often 
comes  to  us  like  a  dark,  hated  dower,  like  a  debt 
which  we  have  not  contracted  yet  must  pay  in 
full.  I  recoiled  before  the  hopeless  fact  of  woe 
and  sin  being  entailed  and  transmitted  by  sire  to 
son.  The  misery  of  the  world  —  and  I  had  not 
seen  so  little  of  it  that  I  was  unable  to  estimate 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  105 

its  malign  weight  and  scope  —  was  lit  for  me,  in 
all  its  ravage  and  solemnity,  by  a  new  and  search 
ing  ray.  It  was  like  seeing  a  lurid  sun  cast  dying 
light  upon  some  wreck  where  waves  broke  wildly 
and  shrieks  rang  out  unheard  into  the  deaf  storm. 
I  would  sleep  ill  because  of  the  remembrance  that 
I  had  been  born  of  a  father  who  had  perhaps 
made  the  taint  of  his  own  worst  vice  bite  into  the 
tissues  of  my  being  as  a  mordant  will  bite  into 
wool ;  and  when  my  wakeful  intervals  came  I 
would  lie  in  the  dark  of  my  own  chamber  and 
wonder  why  to  each  of  us,  brought  without  asking 
upon  this  planet  where  so  many  of  us  must  fight 
to  live  at  all,  the  start  should  not  be  equal,  un 
trammelled,  exempt  from  the  bonds  and  snares  of 
ancestry.  I  did  not  know,  then,  that  just  such 
futile  questionings  as  these  had  driven  older  and 
finer  brains  than  mine  into  sombre  agonies  of 
doubt,  and  even  into  madness  as  well ! 

Michael  at  length  drew  me  aside,  one  day,  with 
a  demeanor  that  I  at  once  decided  to  be  por 
tentous.  He  always  had  for  important  events  a 
frown  of  more  or  less  gloom.  I  knew  all  his 
frowns ;  this  one  was  of  the  sort  which  he  gave 
on  having  negotiated  a  specially  lucrative  fu 
neral. 

"  Shure,*'  he  began,  "  it's  somethin'  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  ye  that'll  be  a  big  surprise.  An'  furst  off  I 
guess  ye  won't  b'lieve  I'm  tellin'  the  truth  wan 
bit,  so  ye  won't." 


106  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  Oh,  you  always  tell  the  truth,  Mike,"  I  said, 
with  rather  rosy  exaggeration.  "  What  is  it?" 

Michael  had  found  my  father.  One  of  his 
policeman-friends  had  used  influence  with  a  certain 
very  keen  detective,  who  had  no  doubt  done  the 
ferreting  work  gratis,  and  just  as  a  bloodhound 
might  dispose  of  a  rat  or  chipmunk  in  its  pursuit 
of  larger  prey.  Furthermore,  Michael  had  himself 
seen  my  father,  without  the  latter  suspecting  who 
he  was.  This  was  the  first  time  the  two  men  had 
ever  met.  I  soon  judged,  from  what  Michael  im 
parted,  that  my  father  was  much  changed  in  ap 
pearance.  I  now  heard  him  described  as  haggard 
of  visage  and  rather  lank  of  figure.  The  place  of 
encounter  had  been  a  liquor-saloon,  whose  pro 
prietor  was  fortunately,  as  Mike  expressed  it, 
"  raised  home  in  the  same  place  wid  meeself,  d'ye 
mind."  My  father  was  in  the  habit  of  coming 
into  this  place  every  night,  and  taking  as  much 
bad  brandy  (he  always  drank  brandy)  as  the  coin 
or  two  in  his  possession  would  buy.  He  always 
drank  alone,  always  seemed  moody  and  uncom 
municative,  and  never  showed  a  sign  of  intoxica 
tion.  He  was  evidently  in  great  poverty ;  his 
clothes,  if  not  of  the  worst,  were  frayed  and 
shabby.  He  dwelt  not  far  away  in  the  attic  of 
a  tenement-house.  It  was  not  known  how  he 
secured  the  little  money  which  fell  to  him,  for 
he  had  had  no  regular  occupation  since  leaving 
prison.  It  was  supposed,  however,  that  his  great 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  107 

strength  of  frame  made  him  sometimes  valuable 
about  the  wharves. 

All  this  interested  me  keenly.  And  it  seemed 
a  vast  advantage  to  have  found  out  so  much  con 
cerning  our  arch-foe.  I  had  a  sense  of  relief  as  I 
recalled  the  location  of  that  liquor-shop  and  its  ad 
jacent  tenement-house.  Both  were  well  removed 
from  our  quarter,  being  near  Bowling  Green,  in  the 
breezy  vicinity  of  the  old  Battery,  not  then  as  now 
so  smart  with  flagged  walks  and  marine  esplanade. 

Strangely  enough,  as  days  followed  this  revela 
tion  of  Michael's,  a  curiosity  began  to  assail  and 
tempt  me.  I  wanted  to  have  Michael  contrive  in 
some  way  that  I  should  see  my  father  while  my 
self  unseen.  I  knew  that  if  I  once  made  the 
request  of  him  he  would  not  be  content  till  he 
had  gratified  it.  The  danger  might  be  great  or 
slight,  according  to  circumstance.  But  it  was  not 
because  of  the  danger  that  I  shrank  from  taxing 
Michael's  devotedness.  It  was  because  I  doubted 
my  own  right  to  run  the  least  risk  of  this  sort 
without  the  knowledge  of  her  for  whom  my  safety 
and  happiness  were  all  that  made  life  other  than  a 
ceaseless  pain.  Still,  confidence  in  Michael  re 
duced  that  risk  tenfold  as  I  reflected  upon  it. 
And  as  for  personal  fear,  I  had  none  whatever. 
All  the  timid  qualms  which  beset  a  child  had  fled 
from  me  now.  I  had  become  a  youth  of  not  a 
little  cool  courage,  and  enjoyed  in  imagination 
things  that  bore  a  spice  of  venture  or  peril. 


108  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

My  mother  had  heard  nothing  of  Michael's  re 
cent  successful  search.  She  need  never  know  of 
the  somewhat  bold  plan  I  was  then  forming. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  chance  —  unless  some 
dire  mishap  should  occur  —  that  she  would  not 
remain  in  continued  ignorance  of  the  whole  mat 
ter.  Why  should  I  not  confirm  any  doubt  still 
existent  —  and  I  confess  there  was  a  lurking  one 
—  that  no  mistake  had  been  made  in  the  precise 
identity  of  my  father?  Besides,  I  wanted  to  look 
upon  him  once  again.  It  was  wholly  a  curiosity, 
and  I  suppose  it  was  clearly  morbid  as  well.  He 
had  never  loved  me,  or  shown  me  a  shade  of 
tenderness.  But  I  wanted  to  see  what  changes 
remorse,  passion,  dissipation,  perhaps  defeated 
vengeance,  had  wrought  in  him. 

I  finally  spoke  to  Michael.  He  at  first  shook 
his  head  with  decision.  Then  I  spoke  more  per 
suasively,  and  he  scratched  it  in  characteristic 
doubt.  There  must  be  a  way  of  my  seeing  my 
father,  I  told  him,  and  yet  of  my  remaining  un 
discovered.  He  could  surely  hit  upon  a  way. 
"You're  so  shrewd,  Mike,"  I  added,  with  a  touch 
of  flattery,  open  and  }*et  adroit.  "  I  am  sure  you 
could  find  it,  if  there  were  any  way." 

"  Anny  way  ?  "  murmured  Mike,  gutturally  and 
a  little  crossly.  "  Of  coorse  there  ain't." 

I  felt  that  I  had  gained  my  point.  Whenever 
Michael  was  the  least  cross  to  me  it  meant  that  a 
big  fund  of  indulgence  lay  behind  his  grimness 


TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  109 

And  I  was  right  in  this  case.  On  the  follow 
ing  Saturday  —  my  holiday  from  school  —  he  had 
arranged  everything.  I  was  to  see  my  father  and 
yet  be  securely  unseen  by  him. 

Michael  explained  to  me  just  how  the  affair 
would  be  managed.  I  listened  and  gave  my  ap 
proval  after  I  had  heard.  He  must  have  been  on 
rather  intimate  terms  with  Patrick  Costello,  the 
proprietor  of  the  liquor-saloon  I  have  before  men 
tioned.  My  father  was  in  the  habit  of  entering 
there  at  about  four  o'clock  every  afternoon.  An 
ambush  in  this  place  had  been  provided  for  both 
of  us.  We  would  be  due,  so  to  speak,  at  a  quar 
ter  of  four.  And  we  kept  our  engagement  punc 
tually  to  the  minute. 

The  ambush  struck  me  at  once  as  wonderfully 
secure.  Michael  and  I  found  ourselves  placed  in 
a  small  apartment  at  one  side  of  the  general  en 
trance.  It  was  a  little  chamber  intended  for  the 
bacchanal  use  of  convivial  parties,  and  judging 
from  its  pasty,  grimy  table  and  its  two  or  three 
effete  chairs,  I  imagined  what  riotous  cliques  must 
have  clinked  glasses  there.  The  door  of  this  re 
sort  had  a  key  on  the  inside,  which  Michael 
turned.  But  the  upper  part  of  this  door  was  a 
blind,  with  slats  easily  moved,  so  that  one  drawing 
a  little  backward  could  command  an  oblique  but 
fair  view  of  the  saloon  itself.  I  knelt  on  a  chair 
at  the  side  of  my  towering  companion,  and  our 
survey  was  complete.  To-day,  no  doubt,  such  an 


110  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

ambuscade  would  scarcely  be  possible  in  any  simi 
lar  haunt.  JEstheticism  —  or  something  comically 
like  it  —  has  made  the  modern  liquor-seller  deco 
rate  his  lair  with  gaudy  stained-glass  windows, 
doors  of  polished  oak  or  walnut,  and  a  "  bar  "  of 
prismatic  splendor.  The  trick  of  rousing  a  drink 
er's  thirst  by  tickling  his  eye  had  not  yet  come 
into  vogue.  Here  everything  was  plain  and  even 
scurvy,  as  befits  dens  where  workmen  pour  out 
into  tumblers  the  earnings  that  should  get  their 
wives  decent  gear  or  their  children  shoes.  As  I 
knelt  at  Michael's  side,  I  saw  dark  rows  of  bot 
tles  perched  along  a  wall  misty  with  cobwebs ;  I 
saw  the  apparatus  for  pumping  ale  from  a  cellar 
below,  with  tarnished  faucets  and  shabby  wood 
work  ;  I  saw  a  counter  whose  very  edges,  worn 
and  sagged,  looked  as  though  it  had  accommodated 
the  shifting  elbows  of  multitudinous  drunkards; 
and  lastly  I  saw  Mr.  Costello  himself,  the  genius 
—  shall  I  say  the  evil  genius  ?  —  of  the  dive,  with 
his  veiny,  sanguine  cheeks,  his  dull,  bloodshot  eye, 
his  copious  fall  of  dyed  mustache,  his  flabby  bulge 
of  stomach.  It  is  possible  that  Mr.  Costello  might 
have  known  better  than  to  sit  the  spider  of  this 
noxious  web,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  did 
not  look  as  if  he  knew  better. 

Of  course  it  was  all  an  old  story  to  me. 
Michael  and  I  had  seen  it  all  before.  But  that 
afternoon  it  somehow  seemed  new  and  unwontedly 
loathsome,  because  I  realized  that  the  man  whom 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  Ill 

my  mother  still  loved  might  soon  enter  its  woful 
domain.  But  four  o'clock  came  without  bringing 
him.  The  minutes  preceding  that  hour  brought 
more  than  one  customer  to  Mr.  Patrick  Costello. 
I  write  of  New  York  as  I  saw  it  years  ago,  but 
the  years  have  not  changed  this  horrid,  alcoholic 
part  of  it,  and  what  I  record  of  past  time  is  true 
of  to-day. 

I  remember  that  afternoon  so  well,  while  Mike 
and  I  waited  in  our  hiding-place !  A  woman 
staggered  in,  with  a  big  white  pitcher,  and  a 
wrinkled  face  as  white  as  the  pitcher  itself.  "  I'll 
give  ye  no  more,"  said  Mr.  Costello,  wiping  his 
bar  imperturbably.  This  was  in  its  way  moral;  it 
raised  Mr.  Costello  in  my  opinion ;  he  was  not  all 
for  sordid  gain.  A  little  later  two  negroes  en 
tered.  They  were  at  once  told  to  "  get  along  out 
o'  that,"  with  a  fierce  vehemence,  and  they  de 
parted.  The  hate  of  this  enslaved  race  was  then 
rampant  with  the  Irish  of  New  York.  Still  later 
a  little  child  appeared,  in  filthy  rags  and  with  bare 
feet,  carrying  a  jug.  The  little  creature  could 
just  lift  the  jug  to  the  bar's  edge.  "  Where's  yer 
money  ?  "  said  Mr.  Costello,  unwilling  (and  doubt 
less  because  of  past  impositions)  to  fill  the  jug 
without  first  getting  the  price  of  what  he  would 
put  into  it.  The  frowzy  child,  standing  on  her 
naked  tip-toes,  lifted  a  coin.  Mr.  Costello  eyed  it 
suspiciously  as  soon  as  his  blue-nailed  thumb  and 
forefinger  had  touched  it.  Then,  still  with  a  dubi- 


112  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

ous  air,  he  placed  it  under  the  glossy  cascade  of 
his  dyed  mustache.  A  moment  afterward  he 
flung  it  into  the  empty  jug,  returned  this  to  the 
child,  and  grumbled  out  — "  Get  along  wid  ye. 
It's  bad.  Get  along,  now."  The  child,  whimper 
ing  a  little,  "got  along,"  just  as  the  proscribed 
negroes  had  done. 

And  at  last  he  came.  I  clutched  Mike's  brawny 
shoulder  as  I  saw  him  enter.  I  knew  him  in 
stantly.  But  he  was  greatly  altered.  His  face 
had  lost  all  its  cold,  stern  beauty :  there  was  only 
the  coldness  and  sternness  left.  His  cheeks  were 
sunken,  his  hair  was  streaked  with  gray,  his  lim 
pid  eyes  were  dulled ;  and  new  harsh  lines  had 
crept  about  lip  and  nostril.  You  saw  plainly  that 
he  had  suffered  past  the  common  human  measure. 
But  there  was  an  acerbity  in  his  face  that  slew  all 
sympathy.  I  felt  as  I  looked  at  him  that  he  was 
harder  and  crueller  than  ever  before. 

He  poured  out  a  tumblerful  of  tawny  fluid  from 
the  black  bottle  that  Mr.  Costello  handed  him. 
It  was  an  uncompromising  tumblerful,  and  he 
drank  it  quite  raw.  I  remember  that  the  thought 
flashed  through  me,  here :  "If  he  drinks  often 
like  this  it  may  kill  him,  and  then  poor  mamma 
will  be  free." 

Mr.  Costello,  with  an  evident  motive  of  deten 
tion,  now  leaned  across  the  bar  and  said  affably  to 
his  customer: 

"  Have  sumethin'  wid  me,  sur.    Wat'll  it  be,  sur?" 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  113 

"  Brandy,"  said  my  father. 

Mr.  Costello  graciously  waved  a  hand  toward 
the  bottle  which  still  remained  on  the  counter. 

My  father  drank  again.  Mr.  Costello  poured 
something  from  a  private  bottle  of  his  own,  among 
the  many  which  thronged  his  shelves.  "  Well, 
here's  luck,"  he  said,  drinking.  And  after  drink 
ing  he  said :  "  Ye 're  votin'  wid  the  Dimercrats,  I 
s'pose." 

"  No,"  said  my  father,  almost  gruffly.  "  I'm 
not  in  politics  at  all." 

This  was  quite  too  much  for  Mr.  Costello.  I 
think  he  temporarily  forgot  that  Michael  and  I 
were  listening  and  observing.  He  leaned  toward 
my  father  and  began  a  eulogy,  in  fervid  brogue, 
of  the  present  Democratic  nominee  for  mayor. 
My  father  listened,  or  seemed  to  listen,  with  ill-hid 
annoyance.  Mr.  Costello  individualized  one  of 
the  curses  of  New-York  political  life ;  his  liquor- 
den  was  a  means  of  distributing  bribes  to  those 
who  frequented  it,  for  the  purpose  of  making  them 
vote  a  certain  "  ticket."  Agents  of  the  nominee 
for  mayor,  alderman,  or  whatever  the  municipal 
position  possibly  was,  would  place  certain  money 
in  his  hands  to  be  discreetly  used  for  electioneer 
ing  purposes.  Mr.  Costello  had  a  five-dollar  note 
for  my  father  if  he  would  pledge  himself  to  vote 
in  one  special  way,  and  he  soon  showed  that  he 
had.  He  showed  it  in  this  fashion  : 

"  Look  here,  mee  man.     You  go  wid  us,  d'ye 


114  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

undershtand,  an'  it'll  be  a  good  job  annyhow.  I'll 
see  ye  on  'lection-day,  so  I  will,  an'  if  you'd  want 
to  borrer  five  dollars  or  so,  d'ye  mind,  I'll "  — 

Suddenly  Mr.  Costello  paused.  He  remembered 
himself.  He  became  conscious  of  his  unseen  au 
ditors.  Representing  as  he  did  one  of  those  vicious 
elements  which  have  cast  shame  upon  the  greatest 
city  in  America  for  many  years,  he  naturally  re 
coiled  before  an  open  display  of  his  own  political 
corruption.  He  could  hold  a  good  many  five- 
dollar  bills  in  that  big  soiled  hand  of  his.  Men 
had  given  them  to  him  who  would  not  have  pre 
cisely  rejoiced  in  having  their  names  made  public 
as  the  donors.  They  used  the  lust  for  drink  as 
one  of  their  aids  to  slipping  within  fat  electoral 
places.  They  turned  democracy  into  infamy,  and 
they  have  been  doing  it  for  a  good  many  years 
since  the  period  of  which  I  write. 

But  my  father  was  a  bad  subject  for  all  such 
bribery.  He  shook  his  head  and  moved  toward 
the  door.  I  am  sure  that  he  saw  the  rottenness 
of  this  kind  of  attempted  government,  and  that 
he  shrank  from  it  with  merited  disgust.  I  will 
pay  him  this  one  tribute  of  respect.  Black  as 
were  his  other  faults,  dishonesty  was  not  among 
them.  .  . 

When  I  regained  our  home  I  had  a  guilty  feel 
ing  as  I  met  my  mother's  eye.  I  had  seen  him, 
and  she  did  not  dream  of  it.  How  eagerly  she 
would  have  questioned  me  if  she  had  known  ! 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  115 

But  she  did  not  know,  I  told  myself,  and  never 
should.  I  had  seen  that  in  my  father  which  made 
me  believe  him  capable  of  any  desperate  act. 
What  he  had  tried  unsuccessfully  to  do  he  might 
try  to  do  again.  His  face,  his  mien,  his  blasted 
and  shattered  personality,  had  told  me  this.  The 
prison  had  not  cured  him.  He  still  suffered,  in 
his  bad,  wild  way.  And  he  still  waited. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  It  was  a  day  of 
days  with  me.  The  season  was  latter  May,  the 
weather  balmy,  bland,  exquisite.  Even  that  ugly 
Bowery  of  ours  took  a  certain  grace  and  glamor. 
The  house-tops,  unsightly  as  they  were,  could  not 
hide  the  brilliant  blue  of  the  sky.  It  was  a  day  that 
tempted  one  out  of  doors.  "  We  will  go  to  church 
together,  this  morning,  if  you  wish,"  my  mother 
said  to  me. 

"  Very  well,"  I  answered.  The  church  was  not 
far  away.  I  recollect  that  I  had  a  new  suit  of 
clothes,  that  morning,  made  by  my  mother's  deft 
hand.  I  felt  proud  and  happy  as  I  walked  at  her 
side  to  church.  The  delicious  air  of  the  May 
weather  dispelled  all  the  gloom  of  yesterday's  dis 
covery.  My  mother  spoke  as  we  walked  along 
together. 

"  How  pleasant  everything  is,  Otho." 

"  Yes,  mamma.  I  am  so  glad  you  were  willing 
to  walk  out.  I  thought  you  would  always  be 
afraid  .  .  nowadays." 

She  did  not  speak  for  several  minutes.     "  The 


116  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

sweet  weather  made  me  come  forth  and  breathe 
it,"  she  replied.  There  was  a  pink  flush  in  her 
cheeks  as  she  said  this  ;  I  had  never  seen  her 
more  beautiful.  "  It  is  hard  to  realize  that  dis 
ease  can  lurk  so  near  us  when  the  air  has  so 
much  purity." 

"  Disease,  mamma  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  Did  you  not  know,  Otho  ?  Smallpox  has 
broken  out  in  our  neighborhood.  Old  Mrs.  Joyce, 
the  furniture-man's  wife,  died  of  it  yesterday. 
And  several  other  cases  have  also  occurred  quite 
near  us.  Michael  is  to  bring  a  doctor  to-morrow, 
and  we  are  to  be  vaccinated  —  Martha,  Michael, 
you  and  I,  all  of  us.  You  were  vaccinated  when 
a  little  baby,  Otho,  and  I  remember  what  a  dread 
ful  arm  you  had.  The  doctor  said  then,  laugh 
ingly,  that  you  would  be  safe  for  the  rest  of  your 
lifetime." 

Just  as  my  mother  finished  speaking  I  saw  a 
man  coming  toward  us  whose  face  and  form  I 
recognized  with  a  sudden  horrible  thrill.  We 
were  in  Chatham  Square,  almost  at  the  verge  of 
East  Broadway.  In  a  moment  more  we  would 
place  our  feet  upon  the  curb-stone.  I  seized  my 
mother's  hand  while  we  gained  the  pavement.  I 
did  not  dare  to  point.  "  Mamma,"  I  said,  in  my 
usual  French,  and  with  great  speed,  "there  is 
papa.  Be  careful.  Come." 

I  wanted  her  to  turn  with  me.  But  she  halted, 
and  then  stood  motionless.  My  father  advanced. 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  117 

"  Come  —  come  I  "  I  urged  wildly.  "  He  does 
not  see  us  yet.  He  "  — 

But  now  he  had  seen  us.  And  as  he  did  so  a 
great  recognizing  start  showed  itself  in  both  his 
frame  and  face.  He  abruptly  paused.  And  then, 
very  suddenly  and  swiftly,  he  darted  forward, 
straight  in  our  direction. 

"  Mamma !  "  I  cried.  "  Do  not  stand  still  like 
this !  Hurry  away."  I  dragged  at  her  hand,  but 
she  did  not  move.  Was  it  terror  that  made  her 
so  spellbound  ?  Or  was  it  something  far  different 
from  terror  ? 

My  father  was  now  rushing  forward  at  head 
long  pace. 


118  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 


VI. 


HE  reached  us  a  little  later.  His  eyes  blazed 
with  wrath ;  his  face  was  white.  He  held  some 
thing  in  his  right  hand,  which  I  could  not  see. 
He  caught  my  mother's  arm  with  his  left  hand. 
He  did  not  speak;  he  stood  for  a  few  seconds 
breathing  so  that  I  could  hear  him  breathe. 

"  Leopold  !  "  gasped  my  mother.  I  think  that 
was  all  she  said ;  if  she  spoke  another  word  I  can 
not  recall  it.  I  still  clutched  her  hand.  And 
then,  with  my  flesh  like  ice,  I  saw  him  strike  at 
her  with  what  he  held.  I  saw  no  flash  of  a  knife. 
He  struck  toward  her  throat,  on  the  left  side. 
The  blow  meant  death;  it  had  severed  a  great 
vein ;  the  blood  gushed  in  torrents.  My  mother 
tore  her  fingers  from  my  mad  hold.  In  an  in 
stant  the  sidewalk  about  us  was  one  crimson  pool. 
She  reeled  and  staggered,  but  as  she  did  so  he 
kept  her  with  one  arm  from  falling,  and  then  I 
perceived  that  he  had  a  slim,  keen  knife,  for  he 
suddenly  plunged  it  several  times  into  his  own 
breast.  My  mother  and  he  both  fell  an  instant 
later.  ...  I  cannot  record  what  I  now  did.  The 
street  swam  about  me;  the  noises  of  the  passing 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  119 

carts  grew  a  fierce  thunder.  People  thronged  up 
on  every  side  ;  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  their  number 
was  an  untold  legion.  The  tumult,  the  clamor, 
had  in  it,  to  my  distracted  sense,  an  almost  infi 
nite  fury.  The  whole  experience  was  like  some 
ghastly  dream  of  hell.  I  strive  now  calmly  to 
review  it  all,  and  wholly  fail  to  pierce  the  lurid 
fog  of  my  own  bewilderment.  I  only  remember 
that  I  was  not  unconscious.  If  I  had  really  fainted, 
the  impression  of  uproar,  of  pressing  faces  and 
jostling  forms,  of  excited  shrieks  and  garish  pub 
licity  would  have  proved  far  less  distinct.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  sank  upon  my  knees.  A  hun 
dred  questions  in  a  hundred  different  voices  beset 
me,  but  I  could  neither  answer  nor  understand 
one.  Not  that  I  failed  to  realize  "what  had  passed. 
I  realized  it,  indeed,  with  so  thrilling  an  acuteness 
that  all  other  sense  was  for  the  time  blurred  and 
weak.  Mine  was  the  very  paralysis  of  horror. 
And  yet,  strangely  enough,  my  thought,  so  im 
potent  in  other  ways,  flashed  backward  through 
certain  previous  events.  This  frightful  thing 
seemed  the  fulfilment  of  dire  prophecy,  the  con 
summation  to  which  horrid  omens  had  pointed. 
My  regret  became  one  terrific  enormity  ;  it  ceased 
merely  to  fill  consciousness ;  it  was  consciousness 
itself  —  the  air  I  breathed,  the  surrounding  mul 
titude,  the  sunshine,  the  day,  the  busy  city.  I 
fancy  that  words  of  a  wild  and  wailing  sort  must 
have  left  my  lips.  The  unearthly  crime  might 


120  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

have  been  averted ;  I  had  known  and  dreaded  the 
danger ;  all  four  of  us  had  known  it  and  dreaded 
it ;  this  formulated  the  anguish  of  my  despair. 
It  need  not  have  happened !  In  that  one  sentence 
might  have  been  condensed  the  whole  dark  vol 
ume  of  my  suffering.  We  constantly  speak  of 
pain  as  something  wholly  separable  from  ourselves, 
like  a  scorpion  or  insect  that  clings  to  us  but  of 
which  in  time  we  may  be  rid.  In  that  supreme 
interval  I  had  no  such  feeling.  Between  my  tor 
ture  and  myself  there  lay  no  boundary.  All  was 
one  incarnate  agony ;  every  pulse  of  my  heart 
meant  a  pang ;  every  throb  of  my  brain  dealt  a 
blow. 

It  is  marvellous  that  I  lived.  If  this  tensity  of 
mental  strain  had  lasted  a  few  minutes  longer  I 
have  now  no  doubt  that  death  would  have  ended 
it.  But  torpors  like  these,  which  are  a  death-in- 
life,  tax  and  goad  each  nerve,  fibre  and  organ  to 
fling  them  off,  and  it  is  when  we  fail  in  this  that 
we  die.  My  own  relief  came  in  a  storm  of  tears. 
When  I  began  to  sob  and  tremble  I  was  saved. 
Nature  had  fought  for  me  and  saved  me.  But 
until  later  I  did  not  know  at  what  cost ! 

Someone  tried  to  raise  me,  but  I  struggled  and 
would  not  stand.  My  mother's  white  face,  peace 
ful  and  with  closed  eyes,  had  dawned  upon  me. 
I  leaned  toward  it  and  touched  its  cheek,  still 
warm  in  death.  Then  I  drew  backward  with  a 
horrible  cry.  My  own  hand,  from  contact  with 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  121 

my  ensanguined  garments,  had  left  a  blood-red 
mark.  I  heard  my  own  shriek.  .  .  I  can  hear  it 
now.  "  Take  him  away !  "  shouted  a  voice.  "  No, 
no,"  exclaimed  other  voices.  "  Wait  for  the  po 
lice —  he  knows  who  they  all  three  are  —  he'll 
be  needed,"  sounded  next  from  the  close-packed 
bystanders. 

Then  a  pell-mell  of  questions  once  more  assailed 
me.  I  answered  some  of  them  as  best  I  could.  I 
had  now  risen.  To  left  and  right  of  me  stretched 
one  great  sea  of  heads.  Two  or  three  sturdy  men 
kept  the  crowd  back  from  the  fallen  bodies. 
Plaintive  voices  rang  from  many  of  the  women. 
My  father's  face  was  obscured ;  he  lay  so  that  it 
came  in  contact  with  the  pavement.  I  don't 
know  how  many  times  I  heard  it  called  and 
shrieked  and  moaned  and  muttered  all  about  me 
that  he  had  killed  her  first  and  then  killed  him 
self.  Now  and  again  a  bit  of  humor  would  lend 
its  baleful  discord  to  the  din  of  the  mob,  and 
a  kind  of  laughter  greeted  it,  that  was  like  a 
shudder  put  into  sound.  These  outbursts  were 
perhaps  less  barbarous  than  hysterical ;  mirth  is 
sometimes  a  sort  of  treble  note  to  the  deeper  bass 
of  sorrow  and  affright.  I  cannot  believe  that 
there  was  a  single  spirit,  no  matter  how  hardened, 
in  all  this  motley  congress  of  gazers,  untouched 
by  pity  for  myself  and  her. 

It  seemed  an  eternity  before  the  police  came. 
Several  women  had  begun  not  only  to  murmur 


122  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

fresh  queries  in  my  ears  but  to  caress  and  offer 
me  soothing  words.  I  must  have  told  one  of 
these  my  address,  though  I  do  not  recall  what 
responses  I  made  any  of  them.  At  length  two 
policemen  pushed  roughly  through  the  dividing 
crowd.  The  sheen  of  their  buttons  and  their  up 
lifted  clubs  made  me  start  and  cower ;  the  coming 
of  these  men  turned  a  new  and  merciless  glare 
upon  my  woe.  I  heard  gruff  tones  quite  near  me 
say  something  in  which  I  caught  the  word  "  am 
bulance."  .  .  But  even  then  a  singing  had  crept 
into  my  ears  that  grew  louder  each  instant,  and 
the  pavement  seemed  to  drop  away  from  the  soles 
of  my  feet,  while  all  the  dense  concourse  of  men 
and  women  began  to  whirl  giddily  in  vague  tur 
moil.  Then  came  a  blank.  .  .  I  had  fainted. 

I  awoke  in  my  chamber  at  home.  Martha  was 
bending  over  me.  I  at  once  recognized  her. 
There  was  a  light  in  the  room  as  of  waning  after 
noon.  She  spoke  my  name  softly  in  her  familiar 
voice.  I  had  no  memory  of  what  had  happened 
to  my  mother,  but  I  was  under  a  vague  conviction 
that  I  myself  had  met  some  sharp  injury. 

"Where  is  mamma?"  I  asked.  "Does  she 
know  that  I  am  hurt?  " 

And  then  Martha  seemed  to  melt  away,  and 
Michael  took  her  place  at  my  bedside.  Possibly 
this  was  all  real  enough.  But  after  I  had  watched 
Michael  a  few  moments,  his  gaunt  form  and  dear, 
grim  face  vanished,  and  I  clearly  saw  my  mother. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  123 

She  hummed  an  air,  and  appeared  quite  her 
wonted  self.  But  there  was  a  reddish  mark  on 
one  of  her  cheeks,  and  I  reached  forth  my  hand  to 
brush  it  away.  Then  her  shape  receded,  and  a 
great  drowsiness  came  upon  me.  .  .  . 

But  after  that  I  had  many  episodes  of  wakeful- 
ness,  which  impressed  me  dimly  (for  everything 
was  now  dim  as  a  dream)  that  they  extended 
through  days,  weeks,  even  months.  Some  of  my 
visions  were  appalling;  others  were  tranquil 
enough  and  even  pleasant.  It  was  all  the  change 
ful  phantasmagoria  of  continued  delirium.  My 
distempered  brain  was  like  a  blank  wall  on  whose 
surface  a  magic-lantern  causes  image  after  image 
to  gleam.  The  mysterious  master  of  these  weird 
revels  plied  his  task  with  incessant  zeal.  I  will 
not  describe  either  the  sombre  or  cheerful  phases 
of  my  hallucinations ;  some  of  them  were  the  fit 
kindred  of  frenzy,  others  wore  the  spell  of  calm 
and  ease.  I  can  recollect  no  special  period  at 
which  the  dawn  of  sanity  showed  its  first  ray. 
When  I  became  aware  of  the  walls  that  enclosed 
me,  the  bed  in  which  I  rested,  the  details  of  my 
apartment,  the  hands  that  served  me,  the  tangible 
and  human  shapes  that  came  and  went,  the  very 
taste  of  the  draughts  put  between  my  lips,  all  had 
somehow  acquired  an  air  of  previous  acquaintance. 
The  change  from  dementia  to  reason  had  doubtless 
been  one  of  slow  and  irregular  progress.  I  was 
afterward  told  that  I  would  lie  for  hours  with  every 


124  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

rational  sign  in  my  look,  and  would  not  seldom 
utter  sentences  that  betokened  lucid  faculties. 
Then  the  cloud  would  wrap  me  again,  as  a  mist 
wraps  a  shore.  It  had  been  at  first  a  fiery  fever 
of  the  brain,  but  the  fever  had  now  passed,  and 
an  organic  mania  was  feared.  Still,  my  aberra 
tions  became  of  less  frequent  recurrence,  and 
hope  of  my  full  recovery  strengthened  in  those 
who  watched  me. 

"You  are  better,  Otho,  are  you  not? ''said  a 
voice  at  my  side,  very  softly,  one  day.  The  voice 
spoke  in  French,  but  this  did  not  strike  me  as  at 
all  strange.  I  had  heard  it  many  times  before 
near  my  bed,  lower,  and  using  the  same  language 
to  a  tall,  placid  female  attendant. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  Everything  is  much  clearer 
now.  Has  it  been  a  long  time  ?  " 

"  Since  you  were  ill  ?  Oh,  not  so  very  long. 
Do  you  know  me,  Otho  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered.  "  One  day  .  .  .  was 
it  yesterday,  or  many  days  ago  ?  .  .  .  you  came 
quite  close  to  the  bed  and  I  thought  you  were 
mamma  —  or  her  poor  ghost.  But  then  I  looked 
at  you  again,  and  I  knew.  You  are  Mrs.  Dorian." 

The  lady  pressed  her  lips  against  my  cheeks. 
"  So,  then,"  she  faltered,  "  you  remember  that 
your  poor  mamma"  .  .  . 

She  paused,  and  I  said :  "  Yes,  yes ;  I  remem 
ber.  I  have  seen  it  all,  over  and  over  and  over 
in  my  dreams.  Were  they  dreams,  madame,  or 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  125 

were  they  .  .  .  ?"  I  did  not  know  just  what 
word  to  choose,  and  a  soft  hand  was  laid  upon  my 
lips,  then,  while  another  smoothed  my  temples. 

"  They  were  dreams  —  ugly  dreams,  my  son. 
You  must  think  no  longer  of  them ;  you  will  get 
quite  well  if  you  have  a  little  more  courage,  a 
little  more  patience.  And  we  have  talked  enough 
to-day.  To-morrow  we  will  talk  again." 

Through  a  good  many  morrows,  before  I  was 
able  to  leave  my  bed,  we  did  talk.  These  con 
versations,  at  first  very  brief,  were  afterward  pro 
longed  according  as  my  renewed  health  would 
permit.  And  finally,  when  I  was  strong  enough 
to  move  about  the  comfortable  house  in  Lafayette 
Place  and  even  to  accompany  my  protectress  in 
her  carriage  during  long,  agreeable  drives,  the 
moment  came  for  me  to  confront  another  great 
sorrow.  I  had  asked,  for  almost  the  twentieth 
time,  why  neither  Michael  nor  Martha  ever  visited 
me,  and  always  had  been  answered  in  some  clev 
erly  deceptive  way.  But  the  truth  had  to  trans 
pire  at  last.  Mrs.  Dorian  told  it  me  as  we  sat 
together  in  her  own  large,  airy  room,  which  over 
looked  the  broad  street  below.  It  was  latter 
November,  now ;  it  had  been  early  May  when  the 
illness  fell  upon  me.  I  gazed  out  upon  the  mel 
lowest  of  Indian  summer  days.  We  had  taken  a 
drive  into  the  country,  that  morning,  and  had  seen 
the  dismantled  trees  rising  round  us  in  so  golden 
and  bland  an  air  that  we  almost  wondered  new 


126  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

buds  did  not  start  from  their  dark  branches.  I 
did  not  feel  at  all  tired  after  my  drive,  though 
I  leaned  back  in  a  great  easy-chair  near  one  of  the 
windows,  more  through  an  old  lingering  habit  of 
convalescence  than  because  of  the  least  fatigue. 
The  light  outside  had  lost  its  sunny  fervor ;  this 
autumn  day,  all  too  short,  would  soon  reach  its 
dusky  limit.  Often,  of  late,  my  moods  had  been 
melancholy  ones;  but  now  there  was  a  tender  lux 
ury  in  the  sadness  I  felt,  like  the  dreamy  repose 
of  the  exquisite  season,  pride  and  charm  of  our 
American  year.  A  window  at  some  little  dis 
tance  off  was  half  open  ;  the  roll  of  wheels,  louder 
on  this  account,  brought  us  their  fitful  reverbera 
tions,  full  of  the  stir  yet  not  the  jar  of  life,  amid 
so  much  drowsy  atmospheric  peace.  Opposite  me 
the  high  roofs  of  houses  almost  merged  their  out 
lines  in  the  hazy  blue  of  the  sky.  No  word  had 
passed  between  Mrs.  Dorian  and  myself  for  sev 
eral  minutes.  I  knew  that  her  eyes  had  been 
stealing  more  than  once  to  watch  my  face,  above 
the  embroidery  that  busied  her.  But  I  had  grown 
well  used  to  this  covert  scrutiny.  Bodily  weak 
ness  had  before  made  me  passively  accept  all  her 
care  and  vigilance  ;  but  now  its  devotion  was  a 
perpetual  shield  against  the  keener  grief  of  lone 
liness  than  my  mother's  loss  must  have  dealt. 
Then,  too,  the  effect  of  a  changeful,  ever-recurring 
resemblance  —  of  a  sameness  blent  with  a  differ 
ence,  in  attitude,  movement,  expression  —  was  not 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  127 

without  its  gracious  comforts,  for  all  that  it  brought 
constant  living  and  fading  souvenirs  of  the  dead. 

I  broke  the  silence  that  had  come  between  us. 
"  You  .  never  told  me  where  poor  mamma  is 
buried,"  I  said. 

"  In  Woodlawn,  Otho.  It  is  a  lovely  cemetery, 
not  very  far  away.  Some  day  we  might  drive  out 
there  —  or  we  could  go  by  train." 

"You  had  her  buried  there  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  bought  a  little  plot  of  ground.  Some 
day  —  many  years  from  now,  I  hope  —  you  may 
lie  there  at  her  side.  And  perhaps  your  wife  and 
children,  if  you  marry,  also." 

"  You  are  so  good  —  so  wonderfully  good,"  I 
murmured.  "  Often,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  ask 
myself  if  there  are  many  people  in  the  world  with 
your  kind  heart.  You  sought  for  me  there  at 
Michael's  house  in  the  Bowery  ;  you  had  me  taken 
here  ;  you  have  nursed  and  tended  me  ever  since, 
with  all  the  regard  that  my  own  mother  would 
have  shown  —  except  that  she,  poor  soul,  could 
not  have  done  half  what  you  have  done,  not  hav 
ing  your  wealth.  .  .  Still,  it  cannot  last  forever, 
this  goodness,  madame." 

"  Last  forever  ?  "  she  said,  starting.  "  Why, 
Otho,  I  have  been  on  the  verge  of  telling  you,  for 
some  days  past,  what  will  no  doubt  surprise  you. 
So,  now,  you  force  me  to  tell  it  at  once.  I  want 
to  go  abroad  with  you  and  stay  for  a  long  time  — 
stay  till  your  education  is  finished." 


128  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

She  had  thrown  aside  her  work,  and  had  drawn 
much  closer  to  me.  I  smiled,  and  the  tears  filled 
my  eyes.  She  bent  down  and  kissed  me  on  the 
forehead. 

"  Oh,  you  have  the  face  of  an  angel,  mon  petit, 
do  you  know  it  ?  And  when  you  smile  like  that 
you  make  this  world-worn  old  heart  of  mine  trem 
ble.  You  were  born  to  be  loved  !  I  believe  in 
Heaven  when  I  am  near  you,  and  I  believe  that 
Heaven  has  sent  you  to  me  for  my  own  sweet  son 
in  my  childless  old  age.  I  was  forty-four  my  last 
birthday.  When  you  are  grown  up  I  shall  be  in 
spectacles  and  a  cap.  No ;  not  a  cap  —  I  detest 
them  ;  they  are  a  voluntary  surrender  to  old  age, 
which  I  shall  fight  against,  tooth  and  nail,  till  it 
crushes  me.  Tiens ;  we  will  go  abroad  next 
month  —  to  Paris,  and  afterward  to  Switzerland.'' 

"  Next  month  ? "  I  said,  astonished  yet  deeply 
pleased. 

"  Yes.  It  will  be  dreadful  to  cross  in  Decem 
ber,  I  know.  I  shall  be  ill  the  whole  way.  I 
always  am,  unless  the  ocean  is  like  a  mill-pond. 
But  since  you  last  heard  me  talk  of  my  affairs  I 
have  accomplished  an  immense  change.  I  have 
consigned  the  whole  business  of  Dorian  &  Com 
pany  to  a  brother  of  my  late  husband  —  Mr. 
Steven  Dorian.  It  is  what  one  calls  here  "  selling 
out."  I  have  received  a  great  sum  of  money ;  my 
brother-in-law  has  raised  it  with  the  aid  of  other 
capitalists,  though  the  name  of  the  firm,  now  rep- 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  129 

resenting  his  own  interest  and  not  mine,  continues 
more  suitably  the  same  as  before.  Well,  I  thank 
my  lucky  stars  that  I  am  so  well  rid  of  future 
trouble.  They  say  I  should  have  got  six  millions 
instead  of  three.  Bah  !  it  is  absurd.  What  can 
one  not  do  with  three  millions  ?  One  can  surely 
dwell  happily  abroad  for  years  —  and  that  is  what 
I  intend.  You  see,  poor  old  Gredge  expired  one 
fine  morning,  quite  suddenly.  Do  you  recollect 
how  I  told  your  mamma  about  Gredge  ?  Well, 
after  he  had  gone,  my  reputation  as  a  woman  of 
finance  hung  trembling  in  the  balance.  I  was 
very  fortunate  to  escape  when  I  did.  And  now, 
at  last,  I  am  free.  My  money  has  been  safely 
invested  by  my  lawyers,  and  I  can  go  where  I 
please." 

I  reflected  for  a  moment  after  my  companion 
had  ceased  to  speak.  And  then  I  answered, 
slowly  shaking  my  head :  "You  offer  to  take  me 
with  you,  but  is  it  right  that  I  should  desert 
Michael  and  Martha,  who  saved  mamma  and  me 
from  starvation,  and  who  love  me  still  very  dearly, 
I  am  sure,  though  I  have  not  seen  either  of  them 
for  so  long?" 

Mrs.  Dorian  rose  with  startling  haste.  My  look 
followed  her  as  she  moved  about  the  room.  I 
thought  at  first  that  she  was  in  quest  of  some 
thing,  and  asked  myself  if  it  could  be  a  message 
from  one  or  both  of  my  still-treasured  friends. 
But  a  little  later  she  again  approached  me.  Her 


130  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

eyes  were  sparkling,  and  her  lips  quivered.  She 
sank  into  her  former  seat,  and  as  she  searched  my 
face  I  saw  that  her  own  was  filled  with  agitation. 

"  Otho,"  she  said  brokenly,  and  in  tones  that 
scarcely  seemed  hers,  "I  —  I  would  not  have  you 
here  with  me  now,  my  son,  if —  if  they  were  there 
still.  Yes,  that  is  why  you  are  here  !  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  cried  anxiously. 
"  Have  they  gone  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head  before  my  eager  glance. 
"  Yes,  my  dear  boy,  they  have  gone,"  she  almost 
whispered. 

But  in  another  instant,  as  though  urged  by  the 
impulse  to  employ  self-control  where  weakness 
would  be  worse  than  impolitic,  she  laid  one  hand 
upon  my  shoulder  and  looked  at  me  steadily, 
calmly. 

"  Otho,  I  must  tell  you  now,  for  you  are  strong 
enough  to  hear  it,  and  of  course  you  have  the  sad 
right — you  of  all  others  —  to  hear  it  all.  You 
will  never  —  (oh,  try  to  bear  it  bravely,  my  dear 
boy  ! )  you  will  never  see  those  kind  friends  of 
yours  again." 

"They  are  dead,"  I  murmured,  as  if  to  myself. 
She  put  both  arms  about  my  neck,  then,  and  rested 
her  head  on  my  shoulder.  I  felt  my  heart  go  out 
to  her  for  that  simple  embrace ;  it  was  so  like 
what  my  dead  mother's  would  have  been,  if  she 
had  been  telling  me  the  same  sorrowful  tidings. 

I   asked   no   further  questions,  but  waited   in 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  131 

silence.  I  knew  that  she  would  presently  speak. 
The  first  force  of  the  shock  was  over  when  she  did 
speak.  Not  a  word  of  what  she  now  said  was  lost. 
"  When  I  found  you  they  were  both  with  you. 
I  had  read  in  the  newspapers  what  happened. 
Your  name  did  not  occur  in  the  accounts,  but  it 
was  mentioned  that  you  had  been  taken  in  an 
unconscious  state  to  your  mother's  residence,  and 
this  was  given.  Recalling  my  own  experience  in 
the  past,  I  was  made  literally  ill  for  several  days 
by  what  I  read.  But  as  soon  as  it  was  possible,  I 
went  to  seek  you.  Your  sweet  face  had  always 
haunted  me  ever  since  you  had  come  to  this  house, 
a  few  months  before,  with  your  unhappy  mother. 
I  felt  as  if  some  hidden  power  were  pushing  me 
toward  you  ;  I  had  seen  you  in  my  sleep  stretch 
ing  out  your  arms  to  me  for  help.  I  did  not  tell 
anyone  that  I  went.  People  would  have  called 
it  one  of  my  queer  freaks  ;  to  have  a  sentiment, 
to  go  out  of  the  beaten  rut  of  commonplace,  is 
always  to  be  accused  of  a  queer  freak;  and  my 
list  is  already  so  large  in  the  eyes  of  my  American 
friends  that  I  do  not  care  to  increase  it.  Well,  I 
found  you.  You  were  burning  up  with  fever,  and 
the  two  watchers  at  your  bedside  were  half-crazed 
with  what  had  befallen  your  mother.  I  offered  to 
take  you  here.  At  first  they  refused  to  let  you 
go.  Then  my  arguments  prevailed  with  them.  I 
promised  that  you  should  have  the  best  of  nursing, 
the  most  skilled  of  doctors,  and  that  they  could 


132  TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

visit  you  whenever  they  wished.  I  told  them,  too, 
of  how  you  and  your  mother  had  already  sought 
me,  and  how  I  had  then  offered  you  both  what 
ever  aid  I  could  bestow  in  the  future.  Well,  as 
I  said,  they  consented.  I  had  you  brought  here 
in  my  carriage.  Florine,  the  professional  nurse 
whom  I  had  procured,  and  whom  you  now  know 
so  well,  assisted  me.  That  night  you  lay  in  my 
house.  Martha  came  the  next  day.  Then  for 
several  days  she  remained  absent.  Smallpox  had 
broken  out  here  in  the  city,  and  for  two  months, 
during  the  heat  of  the  summer,  it  raged  with 
much  violence.  That  part  of  the  Bowery  where 
you  had  lived,  and  a  few  other  adjacent  streets, 
were  the  quarters  most  infested  by  the  horrid 
scourge.  I  thought  that  I  understood  what 
Martha's  and  Michael's  absence  meant.  At  last, 
while  you  were  still  very  ill,  I  began  to  pity  them. 
Florine  had  no  fear  of  the  contagion  and  was  will 
ing  to  seek  them  out.  I  sent  her  to  them  with  a 
letter.  But  .  .  she  could  not  find  them,  Otho  — 
she  never  found  them.  That  row  of  houses  in 
which  you  lived  had  numbered  its  victims  by 
scores,  and  many  had  been  taken  away  by  the 
health  authorities,  never  to  return.  Your  two 
friends  had  been  among  the  first  whom  the  disease 
attacked,  and  neither  of  them  had  recovered. 
They  were  buried  as  those  who  die  that  way  are 
nearly  always  buried,  obscurely,  and  with  only  an 
official  report  of  their  deaths."  .  .  . 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  133 

I  lay  awake  for  two  or  three  hours,  that  night, 
thinking  of  my  lost  friends.  There  might  have 
been  peril  to  my  reason  in  this  news  of  their 
double  taking-off,  but  for  the  persistent  recollec 
tion  of  that  later  friend  whom  fate  had  dropped 
to  me  from  the  stars.  I  have  since  then  asked 
myself  whether  Michael  and  Martha  would  either 
of  them  have  consented  to  the  departure  that 
soon  followed  —  whether  their  love,  sharpened 
and  made  more  fondly  clinging  by  their  bereave 
ment,  would  not  have  opposed  a  separation  of 
years.  Ah !  doubtless  they  would  have  seen  too 
clearly  that  it  was  best  for  me  to  leave  them,  and 
in  the  end  have  bid  me  farewell  with  aching 
hearts  !  Well,  at  least  they  have  been  spared 
that  one  trial,  peace  rest  them  both !  I  did  not 
care  for  them  as  they  cared  for  me.  I  felt  it 
while  I  lay  awake  that  night  and  thought  of  them. 
It  stung  me  with  self-reproach,  for  intelligence 
and  imagination  made  the  rugged  and  homely 
sweetness  of  their  love  very  clear  to  me,  and 
always  afterward,  equally  through  the  press  and 
clash  of  events  or  the  drift  and  strain  of  mental 
action,  it  has  remained  with  me  like  some  bit  of 
moving  pastoral  verse  which  we  lay  between  the 
leaves  of  a  portfolio  rich  in  wiser  and  more  pol 
ished  lines.  .  .  . 

"I  feel  that  you  are  entirely  mine,  now,"  said 
Mrs.  Dorian,  as  we  drove  together,  on  the  follow 
ing  day.  She  used  a  mingling  of  the  arch  and 


134  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

the  tender,  while  she  thus  spoke,  which  was  al 
ways  one  of  her  most  attractive  phases.  "  Do 
you  know,  dear  Otho,  that  I  had  serious  thoughts 
of  adopting  a  child  before  I  ever  saw  you  ?  I  had 
hesitated  between  a  girl  and  a  boy,  but  I  had 
finally  decided  on  the  latter.  Girls,  if  clever, 
rarely  grow  up  to  be  handsome,  and  if  they  are 
both,  then  a  husband  steals  them  from  us  before 
they  are  twenty.  Besides,  they  are  so  much  less 
interesting,  and  they  involve  so  much  more  anx 
iety  and  watchfulness." 

"How  did  you  know  that  I  was  clever?"  I 
asked. 

"  Superb ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorian,  with  a 
laugh.  "  You  take  it  for  granted  not  only  that  I 
thought  so  but  that  you  are.  Well,  I  am  sure  of 
it  already  ;  but  you  must  keep  convincing  me,  all 
the  same." 

"  Madame,"  I  now  said,  very  seriously,  "  I  have 
always  heard  that  when  a  child  is  adopted  by  a' 
person  like  yourself,  great  care  is  taken  to  know 
whether  or  not  he  comes  of  a  race  that  has  been 
of  good  repute.  Now,  in  the  case  of  myself,  this 
is  not  true.  There  is  a  stain,  a  dreadful  stain 
upon  my  name.  And  yet  you  are  willing  to  for 
get  this.  But  will  others  forget  it?  Will  not 
the  shame  pursue  me  all  through  my  life  ?  Can  I 
ever  wash  away  the  mark  of  the  blood  which  my 
father  shed  ?  It  is  no  blame  of  my  own,  yet  will 
they  not  always  hold  it  to  be  one  ?  " 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  135 

"  Otho,  what  are  you  saying  ?  " 

"  I  remember  a  boy  in  school  whose  father  had 
been  a  thief.  I  think  he  had  been  shot  by  some 
one  as  a  burglar.  Another  boy  knew  this,  and 
told  it  to  the  rest,  and  they  were  forever  taunting 
and  teasing  him." 

"  Otho,"  replied  my  new  guardian,  most  ear 
nestly  and  gently,  "  there  is  truth  in  what  you 
say.  Hundreds  of  voices  would  be  raised  against 
me  if  it  were  known  what  I  have  really  done. 
But  the  shame  which  you  have  had  no  share  in, 
and  which  indeed  would  pursue  you  through  life 
if  I  had  not  driven  away  the  shadow  of  it,  makes 
you  dearer  and  more  winning.  I  shall  not  deny 
that  your  beauty,  your  French  blood,  and  your 
natural  sweetness  of  manner  have  had  much  to  do 
with  my  choice  and  decision.  But  there  is  another 
motive  .  .  perhaps  you  are  too  young  to  under 
stand  it  .  .  and  yet  3*011  seem  to  understand  all 
that  I  say.  Anyone  can  perform  an  act  of  char 
ity  ;  but  to  turn  the  tide  of  a  human  fate  by  such 
an  act  —  that  is  different.  That  gives  me  what  I 
call  one  of  my  impressions ;  and  it  is  an  impres 
sion  that  will  last,  because  while  I  watch  your  life 
unfold,  leaf  by  leaf,  like  a  flower,  it  will  divert 
me  with  its  constant  variety." 

"I  do  not  think  that  I  understand  you  now, 
madame,"  I  said  dubiously. 

She  laughed,  but  without  her  usual  buoyancy. 
"Some  day  you  will,  and  that  day  is  not  far  off; 


136  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

for  your  mind  has  a  rare  quickness,  and  the  mal 
ady  through  which  it  has  passed  leaves  no  appar 
ent  trace." 

"But  I  resemble  him.  You  said  so  when  mam 
ma  and  I  visited  you  together." 

She  turned  and  scanned  my  face  closely  in  the 
carriage.  "  He  was  very  handsome,"  she  answered. 

"But  he  was  a  murderer."  .  .  I  almost  whis 
pered  the  words. 

She  took  my  hand,  pressing  it.  "  You  are  not 
really  like  him,  Otho.  It  is  only  that  one  can  see 
he  was  your  father  after  seeing  you  both.  And 
since  your  illness  you  have  become  much  more 
like  your  mother  —  strangely  like." 

"I  am  glad  of  that."  And  then  I  added, 
frankly,  "I  am  glad  for  two  reasons.  The  first 
you  know.  The  second  is  because  I  must  also 
resemble  you." 

"  What  a  delicious  little  turn  you  give  to  your 
compliment !  "  she  softly  cried.  "  Ah,  it  is  easy 
to  tell  that  you  are  half  a  Frenchman ! "  And 
now,  much  more  seriously,  she  went  on  :  "I  have 
conceived  a  plan,  and  by  means  of  it  I  shall  throw 
dust  in  all  eyes.  Your  name  shall  henceforth  be 
Otho  Claud.  You  see,  I  change  Clauss  to  Claud ; 
the  change  is  slight,  but  it  will  serve  admirably. 
You  are  the  only  son  of  an  old  school-friend  of 
mine,  who  married  in  Belgium.  I  have  chosen 
Belgium  because  one  meets  so  many  different  na 
tionalities  there,  and  in  Paris  I  am  well  known. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD,  137 

Just  before  her  death,  my  friend  wrote  me,  in  pov 
erty  and  widowhood,  begging  that  I  would  render 
you  some  assistance  when  she  herself  was  no  more. 
I  consented ;  she  died  in  Brussels,  and  you  were 
sent  to  me.  I  went  to  meet  you  at  the  steamer- 
wharf.  The  voyage  had  been  a  rough  one  —  ex 
tremely  rough  for  April  —  and  as  your  health  was 
very  delicate  when  you  started,  seasickness  devel 
oped  in  you  a  terrible  illness.  Voila  !  .  .  you  have 
now  recovered :  you  are  quite  well.  Meanwhile  I 
have  fallen  in  love  with  you ;  I  have  made  you  my 
adopted  son.  Is  not  that  a  charming  falsehood?  " 

Her  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles  as  I  now 
watched  it.  When  I  knew  her  better  and  com 
prehended  more  fully  her  volatile,  romantic,  Bohe 
mian  nature,  I  could  perceive  just  how  and  why 
she  exulted  in  the  loving  and  daring  deception 
that  she  had  used.  But  as  it  was,  I  said  gravely : 

"  No  falsehood  can  be  charming,  madame  —  or 
so  I  have  been  taught." 

"  And  you  have  been  taught  rightly  !  "  she  ex 
claimed.  "  But  here  is  the  grand  exception  which 
proves  the  rule.  I  evade  for  myself  and  you  all 
the  scandale  publique  that  might  follow.  No  one 
dreams  of  the  truth.  Stay  —  there  is  that  stupid, 
honest  Florine,  who  was  your  nurse.  She  went 
with  me  when  I  took  you  from  your  home.  But 
she  is  alread}^  paid  and  discharged.  I  paid  her 
twice  what  was  due,  by  the  way,  and  preached 
her  a  little  parting  sermon  against  the  evil  of  any 


138  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

idle  bavarderies.  She  is  perfectly  safe,  is  dull  old 
Florine  ;  it  is  like  burying  one's  secret  in  a  vault. 
So,  now,  you  are  Otho  Claud.  My  brother-in- 
law,  Mr.  Steven  Dorian,  believes  just  what  I  have 
told  him.  You  and  he  may  meet  in  a  day  or  two. 
He  has  expressed  a  desire  to  see  you.  It  can 
hardly  be  avoided,  since  we  sail  for  Europe  so 
soon.  He  has  a  son,  Foulke  Dorian,  a  boy  of 
about  your  own  age.  I  have  always  mildly  abomi 
nated  Master  Foulke ;  I  can  scarcely  tell  why, 
except  it  be  that  he  is  so  like  his  father,  who  in 
turn  is  so  like  my  late  husband.  Some  day  I  will 
describe  my  late  husband  to  you  —  when  you  are 
older,  I  mean.  It  would  make  you  laugh  then 
more  than  it  would  now."  Here  my  companion 
heaved  a  great  sigh.  "  The  match  was  one  of 
those  horrid  French  affairs,  forced  upon  me  by 
my  dead  papa ;  it  was  the  only  really  unkind 
thing  papa  ever  did.  I  disagreed  with  monsieur 
mon  mari  on  every  possible  subject  except  one  — • 
his  remarkable  knowledge  of  silks ;  and  on  this 
point  I  was  comparatively  ignorant.  We  used  to 
average  six  quarrels  a  week ;  Sunday  was  a  day 
of  truce  ;  Mr.  Dorian  was  a  person  of  much  piety. 
Besides,  we  had  to  take  breath,  as  it  were,  for  the 
coming  series  of  skirmishes.  .  .  .  But  about  my 
brother-in-law,  my  dear  Otho  —  Monsieur  Steven, 
as  I  always  call  him.  He  may  ask  you  a  few 
questions  concerning  your  former  home.  He 
will  not  do  it  suspiciously;  he  suspects  nothing. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  139 

But  you  must  be  guarded,  that  is  all,  in  your 
answers." 

"How  can  I  answer  anything?"  I  exclaimed. 
"I  know  nothing  of  Brussels,  except  that  it  is 
the  capital  of  Belgium  and  situated  on  the  River 
Senne.  That  I  learned  at  school." 

"  Admirable,  my  dear !  You  don't  want  to 
know  anything  more.  I  shall  be  near  you  —  never 
fear.  I  will  turn  all  your  silences  to  good  account. 
And  perhaps  Monsieur  Steven  will  ask  you  no 
questions  whatever.  We  shall  see." 

Before  we  reached  home,  that  afternoon,  I  made 
a  direct  inquiry  concerning  my  father.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  had  done  so ;  a  deep  repugnance 
had  thus  far  sealed  my  lips.  "  Do  you  know 
where  they  buried  him,  madame  ?  "  I  said. 

Mrs.  Dorian  looked  at  me  with  a  sudden  strong 
consternation.  Her  face  crimsoned,  and  then  grew 
pale.  "I  —  I  do  not  know,"  she  presently  stam 
mered.  "I  —  I  never  made  any  attempt  to  find  out." 

Her  evident  disarray  of  manner  I  swiftly  ex 
plained  to  myself  on  the  ground  of  sympathy. 
This  the  sole  interpretation  I  could  give  it,  ap 
peared  to  me  a  wholly  proper  one.  "  I  felt  sure,1' 
was  my  answer,  "  that  you  had  not  let  him  lie  at 
mamma's  side.  There  would  have  been  something 
horrible  to  me  in  that.  I  should  have  dreamed  of 
him  as  resting  uneasy  in  his  grave  because  the 
other  dead  were  so  near  her  in  that  beautiful 
cemetery  you  told  me  of." 


140  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

"  Oh,  Otho,  what  a  strange  idea  !  " 

"  I  cannot  even  think  of  him  as  dead  without 
also  thinking  of  him  as  still  jealous." 

"  No  wonder,  my  poor  boy  !  " 

"And  it  was  so  much  better,"  I  pursued,  "  that 
he  should  have  killed  himself  when  he  killed  her. 
There  was  less  disgrace  in  that.  I  shall  feel  the 
shame  less  on  account  of  it.  He  was  not  one  of 
those  murderers  who  wish  merely  to  destroy 
others  and  then  escape  themselves.  Besides  "  .  . 
I  paused,  here,  and  no  doubt  I  showed  the  shudder 
that  crept  through  me. 

"  Besides  ?  "  Mrs.  Dorian  queried. 

"  There  would  have  been  the  frightful  scaffold, 
the  execution,  and  all  that.  For  the  law  would 
have  found  no  excuse  for  him,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh,  none,"  said  my  companion.  She  spoke 
much  lower  than  usual.  A  gloom  had  fallen  upon 
her  which  lasted  until  we  had  nearly  reached 
home,  when  she  made  a  gay  feint  of  wearing  her 
accustomed  spirits.  But  I  somehow  saw  through 
her  deception,  and  began  to  wonder  at  it. 

The  servant  who  admitted  us,  that  afternoon, 
told  Mrs.  Dorian  that  her  brother-in-law  and  his 
son  were  then  in  the  drawing-room,  waiting  her 
return.  My  guardian  soon  glanced  at  me.  "  We 
had  better  go  in  together,"  she  said.  And  in  a 
lower  voice,  so  that  the  servant  could  not  hear, 
she  added:  "There  will  be  no  danger,  trust  me." 

My  heart  beat  a  little  quicker  as  I  now  went 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  141 

into  the  drawing-room  at  Mrs.  Dorian's  side.  A 
gentleman  and  boy  rose  to  meet  us.  Mrs.  Dorian 
presented  me. 

"This  is  Otho  Claud,  of  whom  I  told  you, 
Monsieur  Steven,"  she  said  to  her  brother-in-law. 
Then  she  made  me  acquainted  with  her  nephew. 
"This  is  Foulke  Dorian,  Otho,  of  whom  you  have 
heard  me  speak." 

I  shook  hands  silently  with  both.  Mr.  Steven 
Dorian  was  tall,  with  a  perfectly  smooth-shaven 
face,  a  nose  that  described  an  impressive  arch, 
and  a  pair  of  bluish,  milky  eyes.  He  was  scrupu 
lously  neat  in  his  dress  ;  his  slim  neck  was  in 
cased  in  a  stock  and  he  wore  a  fob  after  the 
fashion  of  still  earlier  days  than  those.  Every 
thing  about  him  expressed  precision,  accuracy, 
deliberation.  His  movements  were  slow,  and 
awkward  enough  to  suggest  a  sort  of  defective 
physical  hingeing.  He  was  lank  and  ungainly 
enough  to  make  you  think  that  nature  must  have 
set  herself  some  such  difficult  scheme  in  his  crea 
tion  as  to  produce  a  being  without  a  single  actual 
deformity  yet  homelier  than  if  he  had  possessed 
more  than  one.  His  son,  Foulke,  had  a  better 
build,  and  a  touch  of  boyish  grace  in  pose  and 
gesture ;  but  the  lad's  face  was  so  freckled  that 
its  effect  was  almost  nebulous,  like  that  of  a  very 
blurred  photographic  negative. 

Mrs.  Dorian  and  her  brother-in-law  talked  to 
gether  for  some  little  time,  and  Foulke  Dorian 


142  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

and  I  sat  furtively  gazing  at  each  other  in  shy 
silence,  as  boys  will  so  often  do.  I  had  begun  to 
hope  that  Mr.  Dorian  would  offer  no  comment 
regarding  myself,  when  he  rather  abruptly  turned 
his  lack-lustre  eyes  upon  my  face  and  said : 

"Like  America?'' 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  coloring  hotly. 

"  He  very  seldom  speaks  of  his  life  in  Brussels," 
said  Mrs.  Dorian  rapidly  to  her  brother-in-law, 
and  in  a  voice  just  loud  enough  for  me  to  catch 
her  words.  "  That  is  only  natural,  I  suppose. 
The  poor  boy  has  had  so  much  trouble  there." 

"  Guess  he's  pretty  smart,"  said  Mr.  Dorian. 
His  tones  were  nasal,  and  as  he  scrutinized  me 
he  had  an  air  of  sombre  calculation,  as  if  he  were 
deciding  upon  my  suitability  for  a  page  or  messen 
ger.  Nearly  all  his  sentences  were  somehow  ellip 
tical,  and  he  always  ignored  his  personal  pronouns 
when  their  avoidance  was  feasible.  "  Got  a  good 
head,  and  bright  eyes.  S'pose  you'll  put  him  to 
school  on  the  other  side ;  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Dorian.  I  thought 
that  I  was  now  rid  of  further  conversational 
attacks  from  her  brother-in-law,  when  he  again 
addressed  me. 

"  'Tlantic  ocean  a  pretty  big  pond  to  cross, 
sonny ;  isn't  that  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said,  my  color  deepening. 

"S'pose  you  don't  want  to  go  over  so  soon 
again  ;  eh  ?  " 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  143 

I  thought  the  rayless  eyes  were  fixed  on  me 
with  something  suspicious  in  their  gleam,  un 
founded  as  may  have  been  this  fear.  I  grew 
so  confused  that  I  could  have  scarcely  given  a 
rational  reply,  when  Master  Foulke  struck  in, 
half-bashf ully : 

"  I  ain't  'fraid  of  the  ocean  a  bit.  I  wish  I  was 
going.  I  like  sailing." 

"Do  you,  Foulke?"  said  Mrs.  Dorian,  quite 
volubly.  "  Well,  your  papa  ought  to  take  you." 
She  now  turned  to  Foulke's  father.  "  Otho  is  very 
willing  to  cross  this  time,"  she  went  on.  "  He  is 
in  much  better  health  than  formerly,  you  know. 
I  hope  it  will  do  him  good." 

"  Sail  a  week  from  Saturday  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Dorian,  as  if  he  had  already  learned  when  our 
departure  would  occur. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Dorian,  and  then  she  named 
our  steamer. 

Her  brother-in-law  looked  down,  studying  the 
carpet.  "  Good  ship.  No  better  afloat  nowadays." 
He  raised  his  head.  In  his  measured,  loitering  way 
he  continued  :  "  That  German  scamp,  Clauss,  is 
going  to  be  hanged  next  Friday.  Serves  the  villain 
right,  too.  You  ought  to  think  so.  S'pose  you 
do;  eh?"  , 

I  felt  a  great  thrill  creep  through  me.  I  turned 
my  look  upon  Mrs.  Dorian.  She  did  not  respond 
to  it. 

"I  —  I  would  rather  not  speak  of  that,"  I  heard 


144  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

her  say.  But  her  voice  sounded  far  off.  I  knew 
that  I  was  growing  pale.  No  one  appeared  to 
notice  me. 

"Been  quicker  work  than  usual  in  New- York 
this  time,"  proceeded  Mr.  Dorian,  disregarding  his 
relative's  last  words.  "  Such  an  aggravated  case 
of  brutality,  you  see.  Wish  they'd  lynched  the 
ruffian.  Can't  somehow  get  over  thinking,  Louise, 
that  he  might  be  going  to  swing,  next  Friday,  for 
you  instead  of  her." 

Mrs.  Dorian  had  risen  and  slipped  to  my  side 
before  the  final  sentence  was  ended.  She  put  her 
arms  about  me.  "  You  are  not  well,  Otho,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  Our  long  drive  has  been  too  much 
for  you.  Come  up-stairs,  my  dear.  .  .  Excuse  me, 
Monsieur  Steven,"  she  hurried  on,  drawing  me 
with  her  to  the  nearest  doorway,  and  supporting 
me  under  one  arm.  "  I  will  return  presently.  I 
have  got  to  know  my  pet  boy  so  well ;  a  mere 
glance  at  him  tells  me  when  his  faint  turns  are 
coming  on." 

We  passed  together  into  the  outer  hall.  My 
steps  were  very  feeble  as  I  ascended  the  stairs, 
still  supported  by  my  companion.  At  about  half 
way  in  our  assent  my  lips  began  to  move  almost 
mechanically,  and  I  spoke  in  a  low,  terrified 
whisper : 

"  He  is  not  dead.  He  —  he  lives,  and  they  are 
to  hang  him  next  Friday  .  .  next  Friday.  They 
are  to  hang  him  for  killing  her" 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  145 

When  we  had  reached  one  of  the  upper  cham 
bers  I  sank,  trembling  violently,  upon  a  lounge. 
Mrs.  Dorian  bent  over  me  now,  with  a  look  of 
keenest  anxiety  and  pain. 


146  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 


VII. 

SHE  presently  spoke.  "  Otho,  you  must  not 
think  me  to  blame  for  deceiving  you!  It  was  far 
best  that  you  should  never  know.  But  for  this 
unfortunate  chance  you  might  never  have  known. 
I  am  so  bitterly  sorry !  You  have  had  so  much  to 
bear,  pauvre  petit !  It  is  just  like  that  odious 
Monsieur  Steven  to  spoil  everything.  Of  course 
he  did  it  innocently  enough,  but  whether  he  makes 
himself  a  nuisance  innocently  or  no,  I  find  that  he 
makes  himself  one,  quite  the  same." 

"  You  should  have  told  me,  madame,"  I  said 
drearily. 

"  And  caused  you  more  sorrow,  my  Otho  ?  Ah, 
do  you  know  that  I  fairly  took  joy  in  my  secret ! 
I  would  have  given  a  great  sum  to  keep  the  truth 
from  you  ;  at  least  .  .  until  all  was  over." 

"  He  did  not  die,  then,  after  he  stabbed  him 
self?" 

"  No.  Ah,  if  only  he  had  died  !  His  life  hung 
by  a  thread  for  several  days.  Then  he  began  to 
recover,  cursing  himself  that  he  still  lived,  and 
closely  guarded  lest  he  should  attempt  his  life 
again.  His  conviction  soon  followed  his  trial. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  147 

But  certain  highly  merciful  people  wanted  to  have 
him  acquitted  on  the  ground  of  insanity.  Your 
evidence  on  this  point  was  desired,  and  for  several 
weeks  I  knew  that  you  were  being  searched  for. 
But  poor  Michael  and  Martha  were  no  more,  and 
you  had  been  taken  away  so  quietly,  just  at  twi 
light,  from  your  former  home,  that  your  departure 
was  scarcely  noticed  in  the  neighborhood.  Still, 
certain  people  had  noticed  it,  and  I  think  that  if 
the  crime  had  not  been  so  glaring  and  shocking  a 
one,  and  if  popular  wrath  had  not  been  so  hot 
against  him,  they  might  have  postponed  the  trial 
until  greater  effort  had  resulted  in  your  discovery." 

"  I  should  never  have  testified  to  his  insanity," 
I  said.  "•  That  would  have  been  false.  Or,  if  mad, 
he  was  still  mad  in  a  punishable  way." 

"  Your  father,  during  the  trial,  was  composed, 
moody  and  defiant.  He  pleaded  guilty.  And 
when,  after  speedy  conviction,  the  sentence  was 
pronounced  upon  him  and  the  judge  allowed  him  to 
speak,  his  declarations  regarding  your  mother  were 
full  of  invective  and  scorn.  He  openly  exulted 
in  the  dark  deed  he  had  committed,  and  also  ex 
pressed  himself  most  willing,  even  anxious,  to  die, 
now  that  he  had  dealt  proper  punishment  to  one 
who  had  foully  deserted  him.  The  judge  then 
asked  him  if  he  had  no  faith  in  a  hereafter,  and 
he  replied  savagely  that  he  believed  this  world  a 
hell  in  which  we  were  made  to  suffer  for  sins  done 
elsewhere.  Those  who  have  had  charge  of  him 


148  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

since  his  sentence,  Otho,  assert  that  he  eagerly 
awaits  death.  .  .  Oh,  why  should  you  feel  pain  or 
regret  for  one  so  wretchedly  hardened?  Think 
of  yourself  henceforward  only  as  her  son,  not  as 
his."  .  .  . 

I  tried  to  do  so,  but  the  brand  of  disgrace  was 
nevertheless  burned  into  my  heart  the  same. 
Those  ensuing  days,  up  to  the  time  of  the  execu 
tion,  and  after  it  as  well,  were  shadowed  with  a 
fearful  gloom.  When  the  fatal  day  itself  arrived, 
Mrs.  Dorian  watched  me  in  ill-hid  perturbation, 
and  I  was  sure  that  she  had  misgivings  lest  I 
should  succumb  to  a  relapse  of  my  former  ailment. 
But  for  the  stay  and  help  of  her  presence  I  might 
indeed  have  done  so.  When  all  was  over  she  told 
me  of  how  Leopold  Clauss  had  paid  the  dismal 
debt  which  he  owed  to  his  fellow-men,  but  she  per 
mitted  no  printed  account  of  the  execution  to  reach 
my  hands.  He  had  died  with  stolid  calm,  never 
once  flinching  as  he  ascended  the  scaffold,  nor  show 
ing  a  trace  of  weakness  while  he  met  his  doom. 

During  this  most  mournful  and  bitter  period  of 
my  life  I  was  not  without  a  sense  of  consolation 
and  thanksgiving.  The  worse  woe  from  which 
my  protectress  had  snatched  me  seemed  like  some 
direct  Heavenly  intercession.  My  knowledge  of 
the  world  about  me  was  not  so  limited  but  that  I 
could  more  than  partially  estimate  the  rarity  of 
my  present  position.  The  caprice  of  an  eccentric 
foreign  lady  had  completely  altered  my  future. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  149 

Thus  would  have  run  the  general  popular  com 
ment,  deciding  that  I  was  one  in  many  thousands. 
But  this  conclusion  would  have  been  unfair.  Mrs. 
Dorian  had  countless  caprices,  and  yet  the  senti 
ment  which  I  had  inspired  deserved  a  graver  term. 
A  more  conventional  woman  would  have  repressed 
such  an  emotion  as  hers.  A  woman  of  daintier 
calibre  would  have  shrunk  from  my  possible  in 
herited  faults.  A  woman  of  less  bold  imagination 
and  less  vital  sympathies  would  have  found  in  my 
sombre  antecedents  a  reason  for  clothing  her  pity 
impersonally,  and  have  made  it,  if  regarded  at  all, 
a  mere  benevolent  act  of  alms.  But  Mrs.  Dorian, 
who  loved  to  gratify  her  whims,  had  fearlessly 
faced  the  emergency  of  a  much  more  serious  im 
pulse.  The  shadow  of  the  scaffold  bathed  me  ; 
the  stigma  of  an  atrocious  crime  marked  me ;  I 
was  a  human  waif  which  might  be  swept  into  that 
black  whirlpool  of  degradation  ever  ready  for  such 
helpless  outcasts.  It  delighted  her  to  snatch  me 
as  a  brand  from  the  burning.  It  delighted  her  to 
become  my  rescue,  my  salvation,  my  lucky  acci 
dent,  my  star  of  good  omen,  my  destiny,  my 
personified  fate.  Her  love  for  me  was  wholly 
spontaneous  and  natural.  I  had  charmed  her 
from  the  first  hour  that  she  had  seen  me,  and  the 
spell  of  this  charm  deepened  during  my  weeks  of 
bodily  peril,  and  grew  a  fascination  while  recovery 
slowly  buoyed  me  through  convalescence  to  re 
gained  health.  I  do  not  know  what  I  did  or  said 


150  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

to  make  her  so  tenderly  fond  of  me.  In  the  after 
years  of  our  intercourse  I  have  never  known.  We 
sometimes  hear  of  crafty  adventurers  winning 
with  all  sorts  of  clever  guile  what  I  had  won 
without  an  effort.  But  I  am  certain  that  my 
guardian  would  have  been  proof  against  any  such 
wily  siege  in  one  of  older  years.  She  had  no 
ready  credence  for  the  strategic  and  plausible,  and 
she  was  by  no  means  blind  to  the  stolid  material 
vantage  which  any  one  who  sought  her  special 
favor  might  count  upon  securing.  Her  estimate 
of  character  was  rapid  and  usually  correct.  I 
have  sometimes  fancied  that  she  gave  freer  rein 
to  her  instincts  because  of  a  self-reliant  certainty 
that  they  could  never  land  her  in  any  awkward 
swamps  or  fens.  The  foot  that  treads  carefully 
often  does  so  from  muscular  frailty,  and  they  who 
walk  through  life  with  a  lax  gait  are  not  always 
the  most  easily  tripped. 

She  assured  me  that  she  had  no  cause  to  fear  I 
had  roused  the  slightest  suspicion  in  Mr.  Steven 
Dorian.  "Not  that  he  isn't  quite  capable  of  hav 
ing  it  about  anyone  at  a  moment's  notice,"  she 
frankly  allowed.  "  He  is  the  sort  of  person  who 
feeds  on  distrust  of  everybody,  and  I  question 
whether  he  has  ever  given  a  fellow-creature  credit 
for  a  single  unselfish  motive.  He  has  been  in  the 
silk  trade  all  his  life,  just  as  my  late  husband  was. 
I  suppose  there  is  a  slippery  smoothness  about  silk 
that  makes  the  continual  handling  of  it  morally 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  151 

hurtful,  as  if  one  were  always  on  his  guard  against 
oily  rogues.  He  has  an  idea  that  I  should  adopt  his 
boy,  Foulke,  as  my  heir,  which  is  purely  absurd. 
What  horrid  thing  have  I  thus  far  done  in  my  life 
that  I  should  be  forced  to  gaze  continually  upon 
that  firmament  of  freckles?  I  should  always,  in  a 
morbidly  nervous  way,  be  trying  to  count  them. 
Besides,  I  have  blood-relations  of  my  own  in 
France,  as  far  as  that  goes,  and  Foulke  will  prob 
ably  get  a  large  heritage  from  his  father." 

Our  steamer  sailed  so  early  that  none  of  Mrs. 
Dorian's  friends  were  at  the  wharf  to  bid  her  fare 
well.  I  was  glad,  for  obvious  reasons,  that  neither 
Mr.  Steven  Dorian  nor  his  son  appeared.  I  left 
America  with  a  sad  exultation.  As  her  shores 
receded  from  my  gaze  I  saw  them  through  tears 
rather  of  reproach  than  regret.  What  had  this 
land  brought  me  but  sorrow  and  heart-breaking  ? 
There  lay  the  dishonor,  the  infamy  of  my  father 
hood.  Why  should  it  not  abide  there  forever,  with 
an  ocean  between  itself  and  me?  A  new  life  was 
promised  me  in  those  unseen  eastern  lands,  of  whose 
art  and  poetry  and  precious  antiquity  I  was  not  alto 
gether  ignorant.  Far  best  I  should  never  return  ! 

And  these  feelings  were  of  long  duration.  I 
had  thus  far  seen  only  what  was  darkest  and  most 
painful  in  American  life ;  I  now  saw  what  was 
most  brilliant  and  alluring  in  European.  Before 
placing  me  at  school  in  Geneva,  my  friend  showed 
me  nearly  every  country  in  Europe.  We  trav- 


152  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

elled  almost  en  prince  ;  we  had  our  courier,  our 
servants,  our  conveniences  and  luxuries.  I  drank 
deep  draughts  of  peace  ;  the  baneful  past  lost  for 
me  its  raw,  flaring  tinge ;  new  association  drew  a 
kindly  haze  across  it,  till  the  retrospective  picture 
looked  as  dim  as  some  of  those  old  faded  tapestries 
in  the  galleries  which  we  visited.  My  altered 
conditions  of  living  were  assumed  with  slight  con 
straint  or  awkwardness.  I  had  no  vulgarities  to 
live  down,  either  in  speech  or  deportment;  my 
careful  and  patient  mother  had  never  lost  her 
own  sense  of  these  niceties,  and  to  myself  they 
came  as  an  unconscious  dower.  It  was  strange 
with  what  ease  I  filled  my  present  place  ;  it  was 
like  finding  a  costly  garment,  quietly  putting  it 
on,  and  perceiving  the  fit  to  be  excellent.  Some 
times  the  intense  unreality  of  my  fortunes  would 
confront  and  impress  me ;  the  widening  scope  of 
my  own  experiences,  as  I  stood  before  some  great 
statue  in  Rome,  or  watched  some  masterpiece  of 
painting  in  Florence,  would  bring  me  a  bewildered 
thrill.  What  gulfs  of  difference  lay  between  our 
sumptuous  Parisian  apartments,  whence  one  could 
see  that  glorious  Arc  de  Triomphe,  that  mighty 
sweep  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  and  the  little 
suburban  dwelling  near  the  huge  black  rock,  or 
the  solemn  Bowery  undertaker's  shop,  with  its 
satin-lined  coffin  in  the  window  and  its  two  or 
three  tiny  upstairs  bedrooms ! 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  153 

But  of  all  parts  of  Europe  Switzerland  became 
my  passion,  and  ever  afterward  remained  so. 
Often  Mrs.  Dorian  would  leave  me  for  months  at 
a  time  while  I  was  at  school ;  in  nearly  all  the 
great  capitals  she  had  friends  —  artists,  poets, 
painters,  men  of  exceptional  talent  in  a  hundred 
ways,  whom  her  vivacious  mind  and  glittering 
originalities  attracted  quite  as  much  as  the  lib 
eral  patronage  of  her  purse.  At  these  times,  if 
the  season  permitted,  I  would  join  mountaineer 
ing  parties  and  ascend  peaks  which  it  horrified  her 
to  hear  one  even  speak  of  attempting.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  glow,  the  vivid  delight,  the  sense 
of  aspiration  and  achievement  which  belonged  to 
those  expeditions.  Switzerland  is,  to  my  think 
ing,  the  one  divine  poem  of  earth.  No  other  land 
mingles  in  just  the  same  way  sweetness  and  ma 
jesty,  grace  and  grandeur.  The  irresistible  and 
eternal  charm  of  Switzerland  is  like  that  of  certain 
women  in  whom  have  lain  the  secrets  of  untold 
allurement ;  they  have  been  wise,  witty,  astute, 
winsomely  saintlike  or  even  enticingly  the  oppo 
site,  but  they  have  never  lost,  with  it  all,  a  cer 
tain  novelty  and  distinction.  Switzerland  has 
every  phase  of  sublimity,  but  she  has  never  once 
forgotten  to  be  beautiful  as  well,  and  it  is  this 
that  makes  her  perpetually  interesting. 

Mrs.  Dorian  would  give  little  shrieks  when  I 
told  her  of  my  Alpine  exploits.  She  pretended  to 
think  them  desperately  foolhardy,  but  I  suspected 


154  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

that  she  took  secret  pride  in  my  making  them.  I 
was  very  well  aware  that  she  took  much  open 
pride  in  my  academic  success ;  this  was  the  sort 
of  mountain-climbing  which  won  her  complete 
sanction.  My  career  at  school  was  brilliant;  all 
tasks  were  the  same  to  me  in  point  of  easy  mas 
tery.  I  would  often  marvel  at  the  toil  which  my 
mates  would  spend  upon  their  lessons ;  it  was  only 
now  and  then  that  some  knotty  point  would  puz 
zle  me,  and  then  a  little  stout  effort  usually  made 
the  path  clear.  From  my  Geneva  school  I  passed 
easily  into  college  at  Ziirich,  whence,  four  years 
later  on,  I  was  graduated  with  the  highest  honors. 
How  well  I  remember  the  kiss  of  congratulation 
which  Mrs.  Dorian  gave  me  when  I  first  met  her 
in  Paris  after  this  victory  of  scholarship  had  been 
secured !  It  was  a  delicious  morning  in  early 
summer.  I  had  been  travelling  all  night  long, 
but  I  felt  as  fresh  and  bright  as  though  I  had  just 
risen,  after  an  early  retirement,  from  the  elegant 
little  bed  in  that  enchanting  suite  of  rooms  which 
my  guardian  had  already  prepared  for  me.  The 
window  near  which  I  sat  commanded  a  view  of 
the  stately,  massive  Madeleine ;  a  brisk,  thrilling 
breeze  blew  along  the  gay  boulevards ;  Paris, 
bathed  in  merry  sunshine,  promenaded,  laughed, 
chatted,  and  aired  all  the  captivations  of  her  indo 
lence.  It  was  one  of  those  days  when  you  were 
only  conscious  of  her  as  indolent,  forgetting  the 
thought,  reflection,  intellectuality  which  lie  under 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  155 

her  graceful  filigree,  like  the  solid  oak  under  the 
delicate  carvings  which  may  adorn  it. 

"  How  wonderful  and  fascinating  it  all  is  here  !  " 
I  exclaimed.  "You  don't  know  my  delight  in 
getting  back." 

"And  you  come  like  a  conquering  hero,  my 
boy,"  said  Mrs.  Dorian  blithely.  "  I  don't  know 
how  many  invitations  I  have  for  you  already." 

"  We  will  accept  none  of  them,"  I  said.  "We 
will  do  nothing  except  stroll  about  the  streets  dur 
ing  the  daytime  and  visit  the  theatres  at  night. 
I  positively  burn  for  the  theatres  once  more.  That 
incomparable  Frangais  .  .  what  are  they  playing 
there?" 

But  Mrs.  Dorian  (herself  the  centre  of  an  ad 
miring,  amused,  and  wholly  loyal  clique,  which 
consisted  of  nearly  every  known  nationality  and 
included  not  a  few  men  and  women  of  positive 
genius)  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  my  un 
social  announcement.  She  had  been  boasting  of 
me  for  months  past ;  the  theatres  could  wait ;  one 

could  always  see  them.  But  Monsieur  A 

would  soon  depart  with  his  portfolio  for  Scotland, 
and  Madame  B would  soon  take  her  unfin 
ished  novel  to  Venice,  that  certain  scenes  in  the 
last  pages  might  be  written  there.  And  so  on,  in 
a  tumult  of  protestation  my  guardian  assured  me 
that  anything  like  personal  privacy  was  at  present 
not  to  be  dreamed  of.  I  dare  say  I  had  a  much 
better  time  in  permitting  myself  to  be  shown 


156  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

about  as  a  prodigy,  since  the  valiant  nature  of  ray 
exploits  existed  chiefly  in  the  imagination  of  Mrs. 
Dorian,  and  I  received  a  good  deal  of  genial  cour 
tesy  without  the  embarrassing  homage  that  awaits 
a  real  hero. 

This  was  my  first  experience  of  social  life  in 
any  capital  whatever.  Perhaps  for  this  reason  — 
perhaps  because  of  the  specially  attractive  people 
gathered  for  a  time  under  my  guardian's  little 
banner  —  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  the  most 
agreeable  of  like  experiences.  Talent,  in  these 
salons  which  we  visited,  showed  on  every  side  of 
us.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  wit,  raillery,  non 
sense,  and  even  gossip;  but  withal  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  sincerity  and  purpose.  People  were 
in  earnest  underneath  all  their  lightsome,  decora 
tive  trifling.  In  an  instant  many  of  them  would 
change  their  talk  from  mirth  to  extreme  serious 
ness.  They  were  nearly  all  workers  in  the  vine 
yard,  though  various  were  the  sizes  and  flavors  of 
their  grapes. 

"  It  is  so  much  pleasanter  than  going  about  in 
the  humdrum  fashionable  sets,"  Mrs.  Dorian  would 
say.  "  I  can  go  there,  if  I  choose,  Otho ;  it  is 
right  that  you  should  know  this  ;  I  am  more  or 
less  dans  le  monde  here.  But  I  detest  it  all.  The 
rigors  of  etiquette  stifle  me.  Besides,  one  can  be 
Bohemian  in  Paris  with  so  much  more  safety.  In 
that  dreadful  New- York  you  must  know  the 
Amsterdams  and  the  Manhattans  or  you  are  so- 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  157 

cially  lost.  But  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  am 
doing  right  in  letting  you  meet  only  these  clever 
yet  unconventional  people.  You  should  occasion 
ally  be  seen  a  little  elsewhere.  I  was  a  De  Lille, 
you  know,  and  they  are  really  Faubourg  St.  Ger 
main  people,  the  De  Lilies.  I  shall  look  over  my 
cards  of  invitation ;  we  must  go  to  a  few  of  the 
patrician  soirees,  and  then  dip  a  little  into  the 
American  colony." 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  dip  a  little  into 
the  American  colony,"  I  said. 

My  old  boyish  feeling  for  my  native  land  had 
wholly  vanished.  That  ineradicable  love  which 
so  few  men  have  not  felt,  had  put  forth  new  buds 
and  sprays.  A  great  deal  in  America  —  viewed 
from  the  distance  across  which  I  gazed  —  struck 
me  as  lamentably  crude  and  corrupt.  To  me,  as 
to  many  European  eyes,  the  young  republic  did 
not  loom  oversea  a  shape  of  classic  splendor ;  she 
appeared  almost  pitiably  to  shiver  in  the  naked 
ness  wrought  by  hands  which  had  seized  her  robe, 
to  tear  it  afterward  in  pieces  amid  wrangling  dis 
pute.  The  great  civil  war  had  ended,  and  the 
assassination  of  Lincoln  had  turned  to  dust  the 
first  precious  fruits  of  peace.  I  found  myself 
following  with  zeal  the  transatlantic  newspapers, 
and  forming  opinions  regarding  the  proper  policy 
to  be  maintained  at  Washington.  Often  I  would 
smile  over  my  own  fervor.  If  ever  a  man  should 
feel  expatriated,  such  a  man  was  I.  So  little  but 


158  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

suffering  had  ever  come  to  me  from  the  soil  of 
that  other  clime  !  So  much  of  balsamic  content 
ment  had  soothed  and  healed  my  wounds  here ; 
such  treasures  of  education  had  fallen  to  me  ;  such 
noble  resources  of  art  and  culture  lay  close  within 
my  reach !  And  yet  to  the  land  of  my  birth,  harsh 
and  hard  a  foster-mother  as  she  had  been,  I  turned 
again  and  again  with  irrepressible  fondness. 

The  season  was  hardly  favorable  for  viewing 
much  festal  American  life  in  Paris ;  but  it  chanced 
soon  afterward  that  a  certain  Miss  Potts  gave  a 
matrimonial  dower  of  six  million  francs  to  an 
Italian  prince  of  meagre  purse  and  interminable 
pedigree.  Miss  Potts  was  a  California  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  man  who  had  begun  in  pauperism 
and  ended  as  the  sole  owner  of  a  silver  mine.  She 
was  a  peachy  blonde,  with  the  eyes  of  a  fawn  and 
the  voice  of  a  peacock.  Mrs.  Dorian  was  asked 
to  this  wedding,  where  the  guests  were  a  multi 
tude,  and  she  easily  procured  an  invitation  for  me. 
I  talked  a  while  with  the  bride  after  congratulat 
ing  her  as  she  stood,  a  blaze  of  diamonds,  at  the 
side  of  her  little  prince,  who  had  tawny  skin  and 
a  short,  black,  crinkled  beard,  and  whose  features 
were  all  set  close  together,  like  those  of  a  dryad. 
My  reason  for  talking  with  Miss  Potts  (now  the 
Princess  Orsini,  by  the  way,  since  the  wedding- 
rites  had  been  performed)  was  the  simple  one  of 
knowing  scarcely  another  person  present.  She 
quite  astonished  me  by  her  civility,  though  I  was 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  159 

becoming  used  to  attention  and  interest  on  the 
part  of  women.  Every  now  and  then  she  would 
present  somebody  to  the  Prince,  or  address  a  re 
mark  to  him,  and  always  in  the  most  execrable 
French.  Meanwhile,  in  English  not  much  less 
phenomenal,  I  was  told  what  could  not  fail  to 
amuse  and  surprise  me. 

"  I  guess,  Mr.  Claud,  your  ears  must  have  tingled 
a  good  deal,  lately,  haven't  they  ?  I'm  a  married 
woman,  now,  and  I  can  say  things  to  a  gepman 
that  I  couldn't  before.  I've  seen  you  on  the  Bois, 
driving  with  Mrs.  Dorian,  ever  so  many  times.  I 
got  so  that  I  knew  you  by  sight  just  as  well !  And 
now  and  then  Ada  Gramercey,  or  some  other  girl, 
would  drive  out  along  with  me.  Well,  Mr.  Claud, 
Ada  paid  you  a  perfectly  elegant  compliment, 
the  other  day  —  oh,  it's  three  weeks  ago,  I  guess, 
by  this  time.  And  Ada  Gramercey  is  just  the 
haughtiest  piece  about  gepmen  that  you  ever  did 
come  across.  She's  a  Gramercey,  you  know,  and 
her  position  in  New-York  is  A  number  one  — 
they  move,  there,  in  the  very  best  s'ciety." 

"  Does  this  make  her  haughty  to  gentlemen  ?  " 
I  asked,  for  want  of  some  more  important  remark. 

The  Princess  laughed,  and  resumed  her  nasal, 
piping  tones.  "  Oh,  she's  just  as  stuck  up  as  ever 
she  can  be  to  nearly  everybody.  She  kind  of  took 
a  fancy  to  me,  I  guess,  on  the  steamer ;  we  came 
over  together  about  a  year  ago.  She  says  I  amuse 
her." 


160  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  Princesses  are  generally  amused  by  others,"  I 
ventured. 

"  Oh,  gracious  goodness  !  "  cried  the  dazzling 
bride.  "  I  don't  feel  a  bit  less  like  Susie  Potts 
than  I  did  an  hour  ago !  Susan  Potts  Orsini  — 
how  does  that  sound?  I'm  going  to  write  it  out 
in  full  —  }res,  I  am !  And  if  he  don't  like  it  he 
can  just  lump  it,  that's  all.  .  Where  was  I  ?  Oh, 
yes.  .  .  Why,  Ada  Gramercey  ain't  a  bit  proud 
that  way.  I  don't  b'lieve  she'd  'a  married  Carlo, 
and  just  because  they'd  have  said  that  she  wanted 
his  title.  Understand?"  (These  last  few  sen 
tences  were  delivered  behind  a  fan  encrusted  with 
precious  stones,  and  bore  every  suggestion  of  deep 
confidence.) 

"  But  you're  forgetting  all  about  the  compli 
ment  which  Miss  Gramercey  paid  me,"  I  now  said. 

"So  I  am.  Well,  it  was  just  this:  She  told  me 
(now  don't  blush)  that  she  thought  you  one  of 
the  handsomest  gepmen  she'd  ever  seen.  There  ! " 

A  little  later  I  got  Mrs.  Dorian  to  point  out 
Miss  Ada  Gramercey  to  me*  My  guardian  at  once 
knew  the  young  lady  to  whom  I  alluded,  and 
assured  me  that  not  to  know  her  was  to  argue 
oneself  unknown.  "  The  Gramerceys  are  people 
of  considerable  prominence  in  New- York,"  she 
continued.  "Ada  is  the  only  child  of  a  very 
agreeable  widower,  Colonel  Gramercey.  He  is  a 
sort  of  vieux  soldat.  He  fought  in  the  Mexican 
war  with  high  honor,  but  he  has  passed  a  number 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  161 

of  years  in  Europe.  A  most  delightful  old  gentle 
man.  By  the  way,  he  is  a  few  yards  from  us, 
talking  with  that  lady  in  lavender  satin." 

I  saw  a  thin,  tall  man  with  a  martially  graceful 
air  and  a  white  mustache.  One  glance  at  him 
pleased  me :  he  appeared  to  combine  so  much 
amiability  and  dignity.  He  was  listening  to  some 
thing  which  his  companion  said,  and  his  dark  eyes 
twinkled  brightly.  He  was  not  smiling  then,  but 
he  seemed  to  have  such  a  hidden  store  of  benig 
nity  that.it  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  win  a 
smile  from  him  at  brief  notice. 

"  The  dear  old  Colonel ! "  said  Mrs.  Dorian.  "  He 
does  not  see  me.  I  am  sure  that  if  he  did  he 
would  want  to  come  and  have  a  chat.  We  always 
quarrel,  but  we  quarrel  so  picturesquely,  so  divert- 
ingly.  He  declares  it  shocking  that  I  should 
detest  New- York  as  I  do.  But  in  reality  I  am 
sure  that  he  does  not  think  it  at  all  shocking.  I 
always  tell  him  that  it  is  a  pity  he  should  have 
been  an  American ;  he  would  have  made  such  a 
charming  Frenchman." 

Very  soon  after  this  Colonel  Gramercey  did  see 
Mrs.  Dorian,  and  as  soon  as  opportunity  was 
afforded  him  he  joined  her.  She  presented  me, 
according  to  her  invariable  custom,  as  "my 
adopted  son,"  and  quite  promptly  she  informed 
the  Colonel  that  I  desired  to  meet  his  daughter. 

The  Colonel  seemed  flattered  to  hear  this, 
although  I  am  sure  that  my  existence  had  been 


162  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

previously  unknown  to  him.  He  had  that  grace 
of  faultless  manners  which  are  in  almost  ever}r 
case  the  outgrowth  of  a  sweet  and  lovable  nature. 
He  insisted  upon  taking  me  at  once  to  his  daugh 
ter,  promising  my  guardian,  with  a  gallant  smile, 
that  he  would  shortly  rejoin  her  for  one  of  those 
rare  old-time  chats  which  no  lapse  of  years  could 
make  him  forget. 

Miss  Gramercey  was  not  far  away.  Several 
gentlemen  surrounded  her  as  we  drew  near  the 
little  draped  alcove  in  which  she  stood.  Her  mien 
brightened  for  a  moment  when  we  were  presented ; 
I  plainly  saw  that  she  recognized  me.  But  her 
manner  distinctly  struck  me  as  being  cold  and 
proud.  Still,  her  beauty  made  an  instant  impres 
sion.  She  was  above  the  average  height  of  her 
sex.  Her  face  was  delicately  chiselled  and  full  of 
a  most  sensitive  symmetry.  The  pliant  waves  of 
her  auburn  hair,  rippling  above  a  white  forehead, 
just  matched  in  color  the  rich  hazel  of  her  eyes. 
She  had  a  complexion  like  the  leaf  of  a  tea-rose, 
and  a  pair  of  bewitching  dimples  that  showed 
themselves  by  no  means  readily  and  never  at  all 
consciously.  Her  demeanor,  as  she  stood  with  all 
the  lines  of  her  slender  and  neatly  moulded  figure 
in  fine  relief,  was  that  of  a  girl  who  has  no  fear  to 
be  deserted  by  the  usual  current  of  male  attention, 
and  who  is  accustomed  to  choose  her  dovotees 
with  no  wilful  caprice,  but  rather  a  calm  surety 
of  preference.  We  had  been  talking  ordinary 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  163 

commonplaces  together  for  some  little  time  before 
I  discovered  that  she  had  dismissed,  by  a  process  of 
cool  inattention  to  their  remarks,  all  the  other  gen 
tlemen  who  had  been  grouped  in  the  alcove.  She 
discovered  the  general  departure  with  a  slight  start. 

"  How  rude  of  me !  "  she  said,  in  that  voice  of 
hers  which  had  for  my  ears  a  peculiar  cadence, 
and  was  like  the  fall  and  plash  of  sylvan  water. 
Her  exclamation,  I  swiftly  reasoned,  might  be  full 
of  the  flirt's  best  art.  However,  it  more  than  half 
convinced  me  that  she  shrank  from  any  voluntary 
discourtesy,  and  had  a  pride  well  above  the  exer 
tion  of  petty  tyrannies.  Her  whole  face  now 
broke  into  the  most  brilliant  smile,  and  a  light 
danced  in  her  hazel  eyes  which  must  have  been  a 
will-o'-the-wisp  for  many  a  hopeful  suitor.  "  Could 
you  have  better  proof,"  she  asked,  "  of  how  I  was 
absorbed  in  the  idea  of  meeting  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  much  better  than  I  deserve,"  I  answered, 
"  but  I  shall  hold  it  none  the  less  precious  because 
of  that." 

She  laughed.  "  How  prettily  that  would  sound 
in  French  !  "  she  said.  "  And  you  have  the  least 
touch  of  a  French  accent.  Are  you  really  French, 
or  an  American  who  has  lived  for  years  abroad  ?  " 

"  Pray,  why  do  you  ask  the  last  question,  Miss 
Gramercey?"  If  possible  I  meant  to  evade  an 
answer  concerning  my  nationality  ;  I  always  tried 
to  escape  from  that  falsehood  of  my  Belgian  birth. 

"I  have  seen  you  driving  several  times  with  Mrs. 


164  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

Dorian,"  said  my  companion ;  "  and  as  a  little 
girl  I  knew  her  in  New-York,  so  that  I  am  apt 
to  forget  that  she  is  not  an  American.  Then  I 
afterward  heard  from  somebody  that  you  were  her 
adopted  son." 

"  I  am.  And  she  adopted  me  in  America,  when 
I  was  a  boy.  That  is  a  long  time  ago." 

"  And  you  would  like  to  return  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Gramercey. 

"  Frankly,  I  would.     And  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  very  good  sort  of  patriot,"  she 
replied.  "  Europe  suits  me  admirably  as  a  water 
ing-place.  I  prefer  it  to  Newport,  though  I  con 
fess  that  this  is  saying  a  great  deal."  And  she 
laughed  her  clear,  flute-like  laugh.  "  Papa  and  I 
have  been  here  several  times  since  poor  mamma's 
death,  about  six  years  ago.  We  usually  return  in 
the  autumn." 

"  Then  you  do  not  envy  the  Princess  Orsini  ?  " 
I  said.  "  She  tells  me  that  she  never  expects  to 
see  her  native  California  again." 

Miss  Gramercey 's  pure  lip  curled  a  little,  though 
I  thought  there  was  more  pity  than  irony  in  her 
tones  as  she  responded :  "  I  fear  that  Susan  Potts 
will  sigh  for  California  some  day." 

"  Susan  Potts  Orsini,"  I  said.  "  She  gave  me 
her  new  name  in  full  a  little  while  ago.  There's 
an  immense  geographical  sweep  in  that  name.  It 
seems  to  connect  two  continents,  like  the  sub 
marine  cable." 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  165 

«  So  it  does,"  she  returned,  laughing.     "  But  I 
only  hope  it  will  have  equally  harmonious  results." 
"  You  don't  approve  of  the  marriage,  then  ?  " 
"  I  approve  of  very  few  foreign  marriages,  Mr. 
Claud.     They  are  so  seldom  made  with  any  but 
the  most  cold-blooded   motives.      They  are   like 
mere  commercial  partnerships.     I  am  always  sorry 
to  see  my  countrywomen  accepting  marriage   in 
that  unsacred  spirit." 

"  You  believe  that  the  heart  should  always  go 
where  the  hand  goes  ?  " 

"Invariably.  Sometimes,  of  course,  there  are 
worldly  reasons  why  it  should  not,  however. 
These  I  can  appreciate.  Then  is  the  time  for 
deliberation,  courage,  sacrifice,  on  both  sides  or 
one,  as  the  case  may  be." 

"I  perceive  that  you  have  thought  the  whole 
matter  out,"  I  said,  perhaps  less  lightly  than  I  had 
intended  to  speak.  "  But  when  one  of  these 
obstacles  at  which  you  have  hinted  should  really 
arrive,  are  you  sure  that  you  would  not  feel  dis 
inclined  to  accept  it  as  such  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,"  she  answered,  with 
gentle  firmness.  "  I  have  my  little  code  of  matri 
monial  proprieties,  as  one  might  call  it.  I  would 
as  soon  marry  a  man  for  whom  I  did  not  care 
because  he  had  a  great  name  or  a  great  fortune, 
as "...  But  here  she  paused,  and  the  unique 
smile  came  again,  kindling  her  mellow  eyes  and 
deepening  her  sweet  dimples.  "  How  terribly 


1G6  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

serious  a  vein  we  have  struck,"  she  resumed,  "  and 
on  so  short  an  acquaintance  !  " 

"  Pray  end  your  sentence,"  I  said,  "  or  let  me 
end  it  for  you." 

"  Can  you  do  so  ?  "  she  inquired,  archly  lifting 
her  brows. 

"  I  think  I  can.  You  were  about  to  add  that 
3'ou  would  not  marry  one  whom  you  held  as  your 
inferior,  in  spite  of  all  the  claims  of  sentiment. 
Am  I  not  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  assented. 

"Now,"  I  proceeded,  "there  can  be  so  many 
kinds  of  inferiority.  "  Fortune,  for  instance  "  — 

"  I  should  except  that,"  she  broke  in. 

"  I  hope  you  would  also  except  birth." 

"  By  no  means,"  she  asserted,  with  much  quiet 
positiveness. 

"  What !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  You,  who  are  an 
American,  say  that  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  I  do." 

"  But  there  is  no  such  thing  as  rank  in  Amer 
ica." 

She  laughed.  "  Ah,  that  shows  how  little  you 
know  it !  Social  grades  and  degrees  are  very 
marked  there." 

"  You  surprise  me,"  I  said,  and  with  unconcealed 
sarcasm.  "  An  American  aristocrat  —  what  a 
strange  sound  it  has !  Quite  as  strange  as  Susan 
Potts  Orsini." 

"  I  don't  at  all  agree  with  you,"  she  answered, 


T1IE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  107 

flushing  a  little,  and  showing  more  than  a  shade  of 
pique.  "  I  recognize  the  old  tone,  Mr.  Claud ;  I 
have  heard  it  a  good  many  times  in  Europe.  Be 
cause  we  are  a  republic,  oversea,  there  is  a  univer 
sal  feeling,  from  London  to  St.  Petersburg,  that 
we  should  exist  as  an  enormous  social  monotony  — 
a  civilization  which  allows  no  difference  between 
yourself  and  your  boot-maker  or  milliner,  and  holds 
a  fairly  long  ancestry  of  gentlemen  and  gentle 
women  to  be  a  matter  of  no  moment." 

"  I  fear  that  I  must  side  with  the  feeling  here," 
I  replied.  "  Ancestry,  of  whatever  sort,  should 
mean  nothing  in  America.  In  a  republic  the  worth 
of  the  individual  is  alone  to  be  considered.  Your 
boot-maker  or  milliner  may  be  uncompanionable 
through  a  lack  of  congenial  culture,  but  they  should 
be  so  for  no  other  conceivable  reason.  The  total 
absence  of  hereditary  caste  is  what  Europe  natu 
rally  looks  for  in  a  land  which  gave  to  all  the  Old 
World  one  mighty  and  strenuous  promise  that  she 
would  found  her  very  being  upon  equal  civil  rights. 
Here  the  fulfilment  of  that  promise  is  expected. 
How  can  Europeans  fail  to  be  surprised  when  they 
witness  the  descendants  of  those  who  defended 
democracy  with  their  lives,  now  quietly  supporting 
patrician  principles  and  ideas?  More  than  this, 
they  will  be  sure  to  see  the  ludicrous  side  of  it 
and  pelt  it  with  deserved  ridicule." 

Miss  Gramercey  was  biting  her  lip  as  I  ended. 
"If  America  —  and  especially  New- York  —  were 


168  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

what  you  want  it  to  be,"  she  replied,  "I  should 
become  a  most  uncomplaining  exile." 

She  might  have  continued  to  speak,  if  a  gentle 
man  with  a  spasmodic  walk  and  a  flaxen  head 
which  he  carried  peeringly  forward,  had  not  sud 
denly  joined  her  and  begun  to  rattle  off  some 
thing  in  a  throaty  drawl  about  having  only  crossed 
the  channel  but  a  few  hours  ago,  and  being  so 
"  encharnted "  at  lighting  upon  the  young  lady 
whom  he  now  addressed.  I  was  about  taking  my 
departure  when  a  second  gentleman,  also  chancing 
to  discover  the  inmates  of  the  alcove,  approached 
Miss  Gramercey  and  shook  hands  with  her.  He 
was  tall,  by  no  means  handsome,  but  with  a 
marked  distinction  in  carriage  and  demeanor. 
Oddly  enough,  as  my  eyes  swept  his  face,  I  recog 
nized  something  familiar  in  its  expression.  I  had, 
in  those  days,  an  excellent  memory  for  faces,  and 
it  annoyed  me  that  I  should  be  at  fault  in  recol 
lecting  where  and  when  I  had  met  this  one.  But 
later,  on  learning  the  actual  truth,  I  was  more 
prone  to  praise  than  to  blame  my  powers  of  remem 
brance.  .  .  . 

"How  did  you  like  Miss  Gramercey,  Otho?" 
asked  my  guardian,  several  hours  later  that  same 
day. 

"  Ice  is  not  colder,"  I  said.  "  But  like  ice,  she 
is  beautiful." 

"  I  have  heard  her  called  cold,"  said  Mrs.  Dorian, 
appearing  to  muse.  "  They  tell  me  she  had  a  great 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  169 

success  this  season  in  London,  and  a  still  greater 
one  last  winter  in  that  horrid  New- York."  (Mrs. 
Dorian  never  spoke  of  New- York  without  some 
prefixed  epithet ;  she  treated  it  as  Homer  did  most 
of  his  gods,  heroes  and  cities,  though  much  less 
flatteringly.)  "  The  Gramerceys  have  always  been 
people  of  note  over  there.  Ada's  mother  was  a 
Southern  lady — a  Miss  Carteret  of  Virginia,  and 
as  good  as  she  was  beautiful.  I  don't  see  where 
the  daughter  gets  her  pride  from  —  some  deceased 
grandmother,  I  suppose ;  she  has  had  a  number  of 
them.  By  the  way,  Otho,  I  heard  the  most  sur 
prising  thing  to  day.  Foulke  Dorian  has  been  in 
London,  and  is  devoted  to  her.  They  say  that  he 
followed  her  across  the  ocean,  and  that  she  has 
already  refused  him  three  or  four  times." 

"  It  was  he,  then  !  "  I  exclaimed,  giving  a  great 
start. 

"  He  ?  Who  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Dorian,  surprised 
at  my  seeming  irrelevancy. 


170  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 


VIII. 

"  WHY,  your  nephew,  Foulke  Dorian,"  I  an 
swered.  "  He  came  up  to  speak  with  Miss 
Gramercey  just  before  I  left  her.  Yes,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  it." 

"  Foulke  in  Paris,  and  at  the  wedding  to-day  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Dorian  incredulously. 

"Beyond  a  doubt.  I  felt  that  I  had  seen  his 
face  before,  and  yet  I  was  nearly  certain  that  our 
acquaintance  had  been  of  the  slightest.  He  is 
greatly  changed,  but  still  there  is  the  lingering 
look  of  boyhood  about  him." 

"  Ah !  I  suppose  he  retains  a  few  hundred 
memorial  freckles." 

"  I  did  not  perceive  one." 

"  How  extraordinary !  Has  the  leopard  changed 
his  spots?" 

"  Not  only  that,  but  the  leopard  has  developed 
into  a  rather  distingue  young  man.  He  is  tall, 
extremely  slender,  and  most  graceful  in  his  move 
ments.  He  looks  like  a  young  English  swell,  as 
they  term  it.  I  thought  his  complexion  irre 
proachable,  though  a  trifle  too  pale.  And  I  am 
absolutely  certain  that  it  was  he." 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  171 

"  Foulke  should  be  nice-looking,"  said  Mrs. 
Dorian.  "  It  is  quite  in  the  proper  order  of  things. 
He  is  the  only  child  of  an  enormously  rich  man. 
My  brother-in-law  has  succeeded  in  his  business 
marvellously,  and  is  now  the  sole  proprietor  of  the 
house.  How  odd,  if  his  son  is  in  Paris,  that  he  has 
not  looked  me  up !  I  am  not  devotedly  attached 
to  my  late  husband's  family,  as  you  are  aware, 
Otho ;  but  then  our  poor  human  nature  is  so 
queerly  constructed ;  we  are  hurt  even  by  the 
neglect  of  our  aversions."  .  .  . 

It  was,  if  I  recall  rightly,  but  a  few  days  later 
that  I  said  to  Mrs.  Dorian : 

"  Have  you  any  relatives  living  in  Paris  at 
present?" 

She  looked  at  me  keenly,  and  a  curious  smile 
flitted  across  her  face.  "  Strange  that  you  should 
ask  this  question  when  I  was  about  to  speak  on 
precisely  the  point  you  have  brought  up.  My  two 
married  sisters  are  both  dead,  Otho  —  you  perhaps 
remember  when  I  wrote  you  of  each  death.  But 
one  of  them,  Mathilde,  left  an  orphan  son,  Casimir 
Laprade.  Casimir  is  about  two  years  younger 
than  you.  He  expected  a  fortune,  but  ruinous 
speculations  on  his  father's  part  have  left  him  with 
a  very  slender  income.  And  now  he  bears  the 
calamity  with  calm  courage.  He  is  a  most  charm 
ing  youth." 

"  Does  he  ever  visit  you  ?  " 

"  He  did,"  said  my  guardian,  hesitating,  "  but 


172  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

.  .  of  late  .  .  well,  to  be  frank  with  you,  Otho, 
Casimir  is  proud,  yet  not  after  the  pattern  of  Miss 
Gramercey." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,"  I  said. 

"  No  ?  "  As  Mrs.  Dorian  now  spoke  she  low 
ered  her  eyes  and  fingered  a  little  nervously  at 
the  edge  of  a  fan  which  the  warmth  of  the  day 
had  caused  her  to  use.  "I  —  I  do  not  wonder 
that  you  fail  to  understand,"  she  went  on.  "  You 
have  heard  nothing  as  yet." 

"What  is  there  to  hear?  Does  any  mystery 
hang  about  this  nephew  of  yours,  madame  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dorian  raised  her  eyes,  meeting  my  look 
of  sharp  inquiry.  "  Casimir  is  poor,  as  I  said. 
He  is  an  artist  of  striking  talent —  at  least  I  think 
so.  He  is  handsome,  too  —  after  a  very  different 
type  from  yours,  an  almost  feminine  type,  in  fact 
—  but  still  handsome.  As  yet  he  has  obtained  no 
recognition  whatever,  but  he  will  not  employ  the 
least  ruse  de  guerre  to  secure  it.  He  simply  offers 
his  pictures  to  dealers,  and  has  them  declined,  and 
eats  his  heart  away  with  secret  chagrin.  I  have 
known  him  only  about  four  months.  He  came 
to  me  nearly  four  months  ago,  when  I  returned  to 
Paris  from  my  long  stay  in  Austria  and  Italy.  I 
had  not  talked  to  him  more  than  five  minutes 
before  he  had  fascinated  me.  He  became  one  of 
my  impressions  —  and  you  know  that  I  am  always 
having  impressions.  He  showed  me  some  of  his 
work,  and  I  went  in  raptures  over  it.  I  suspect 


TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  173 

that  he  lives  in  attic  lodgings  and  spends  only  four 
or  five  francs  a  day.  He  has  the  most  poetic  face ; 
it  is  quite  Greek,  and  as  if  it  were  cut  out  of 
ivory,  with  a  cloud  of  blond  hair,  and  delicate 
blue  veins  in  either  temple,  and  the  least  little 
gold  thread  of  mustache.  I  wanted  him  to  meet 
some  of  my  artist  friends,  and  he  fascinated  me 
still  more  by  his  almost  girlish  shyness.  I  used  to 
make  him  dine  with  me.  He  was  such  a  discovery 
in  the  way  of  a  nephew.  He  wore  dark  velvet 
coats,  which  were  infinitely  becoming ;  dark  vel 
vet  and  blond  hair  are  so  delightful  a  combi 
nation  when  one  has  an  ivory  face  like  a  young 
Apollo's.  Poor  Mathilde,  his  mother,  had  been 
rather  stout  (Heaven  bless  her !  ),  with  irregular 
features  and  a  pronounced  squint ;  I  never  could 
tell  where  she  got  it ;  there  is  no  record  of  a  De 
Lille  ever  having  had  a  squint  before.  Of  course 
at  this  time  you  were  still  in  Zurich." 

Here  the  narrator  paused.  "  You  never  wrote 
me  of  your  nephew,"  I  said. 

"  No."  The  hesitation  had  now  become  a  sort 
of  confusion.  "I  —  I  would  have  done  so  if — if 
it  had  not  been  for  a  misunderstanding  between 
Casimir  and  myself.  One  day,  when  our  acquaint 
ance  was  still  young,  I  told  him  of  you  —  of  my 
great  delight  in  your  brilliant  scholarship  —  of 
my  resolution  to  make  you  my  sole  heir.  This- 
would  not  have  affected  him  in  the  least  if  I  had 
not  also  uttered  a  bgtise  —  if  I  had  not  been 


174  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

unpardonably  stupid.  I  assumed  an  apologetic 
tone  and  declared  to  him  that  perhaps  the  bond 
of  blood  between  us  gave  him  a  prior  claim  to 
my  bounty,  but  that  circumstances  had  now  so 
arranged  themselves  as  to  make  such  a  claim 
wholly  impracticable.  And  then,  quite  suddenly, 
Casimir  interrupted  me  with  a  kind  of  sorrowful 
anger.  He  avowed  himself  unwilling  to  be  the 
subject  of  even  momentary  thoughts  like  these. 
He  would  not  for  the  world  have  you  suspect  him 
of  wishing  to  stand  in  your  light.  He  had  come 
to  me  because  I  was  his  dead  mother's  sister,  and 
his  long  residence  in  Rome  had  thus  far  prevented 
our  meeting.  It  was  best  that  you  should  not 
even  learn  of  his  existence.  He  preferred  never 
to  become  acquainted  with  you.  The  inheritance 
I  had  promised  to  you  must  pass  to  you  untouched. 
He  desired  nothing  gratuitously  from  anyone, 
living  or  dead.  He  desired  only  what  his  own 
honest  toil  might  bring  him.  .  I  was  dreadfully 
pained.  He  had  a  knot  of  blue  ribbon  at  his 
throat,  and  it  was  so  keenly  becoming ;  and  then 
his  large,  soft  blue  eyes  took  such  a  sad  sparkle 
while  he  thus  spoke.  Man  Dieu !  how  the  great 
Balzac  could  have  described  him,  with  his  deli 
cate  nature,  just  like  his  spiritual  face  !  We  still 
remained  friends ;  we  are  friends  to-day ;  but  he 
will  not  accept  a  sou  of  aid  from  me,  and  .  .  since 
you  have  arrived  he  .  .  he  comes  to  me  no 
more." 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  175 

"  How  pathetically  you  say  that ! "  I  commented, 
rising,  going  toward  a  window,  and  staring  out  of 
it,  though  I  saw  nothing.  I  knew  that  there  was 
satire  in  my  tones,  but  I  could  not  repress  it.  A 
bitter  feeling  had  crept  about  my  heart.  It  was 
the  old  jealousy  at  work  again.  These  abrupt 
tidings  hurt  and  jarred  upon  me.  My  guardian's 
professed  admiration  and  liking  of  this  Casimir 
Laprade  —  this  unforeseen  new-comer  who  shared 
what  I  had  so  long  held  in  complete  entirety  — 
seemed  to  me  like  the  dealing  of  an  unsolicited 
wrong. 

Mrs.  Dorian  had  meanwhile  stolen  to  my  side. 
But  I  did  not  know  of  her  presence  there  till  I 
felt  her  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"  I  have  made  you  angry,"  she  said. 

I  turned  upon  her  reproachfully.  "  Not  angry," 
I  exclaimed,  "  for  I  have  no  right  to  any  anger. 
You  have  done  so  much  for  me  without  my  pos 
sessing  the  least  claim  upon  your  goodness !  But 
still  that  is  all  the  more  reason  why  this  sudden 
news  should  wound  me  deeply."  I  paused  here, 
not  wishing  to  trust  myself  with  another  word, 
gnawing  my  lips  in  the  effort  to  control  what  I 
really  felt. 

"  But  I  never  dreamed  of  wounding  you,"  she 
faltered,  astonished  and  regretful.  "  How  have  I 
done  so  ?  " 

"How?"  I  echoed.  "You  tell  me  that  this 
new  attachment  has  filled  the  place  I  held !  You 


17G  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

tell  it  as  kindly  as  you  are  able,  and  yet  the  truth 
is  clear  as  day." 

Her  astonishment  had  deepened.  "  Oh,  Otho," 
she  exclaimed,  "  can  you  possibly  be  jealous  of 
poor  Casimir  ?  —  you  !  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  jealous,"  I  retorted,  hating  the 
word  and  quivering  under  it  as  if  it  had  been  the 
cut  of  a  lash.  "  But  you  force  me  to  remember 
who  he  is  and  who  I  am !  Ah,  yes  ;  you  remind 
me  that  he  is  your  blood-kindred,  besides  having 
won  the  affection  that  was  mine  for  years ! " 

I  had  receded  from  her,  but  she  now  spread  out 
both  arms  toward  me.  A  bright  smile  was  on  her 
lips,  and  her  dark  eyes  (dimmer  with  age  than 
when  mine  had  first  met  them)  were  glistening  as 
at  some  relished  tidings.  I  had  often  seen  her 
look  like  this  before,  when  pleased  by  one  of  her 
many  fanciful  whims  or  moods  ;  but  to  encounter 
the  change  then  affected  me  as  a  slur,  almost  a 
sneer. 

"  You  are  delightful !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Ah, 
my  boy,  what  a  lover  you  will  make,  some  day  ! 
How  shocking  that  I  am  only  a  poor  old  woman, 
and  not  some  lovely  young  girl !  Still,  the 
impression  is  very  exhilarating.  I  like  it ;  I  posi 
tively  tingle  under  it." 

"Your  pleasantry,  madame,  is  most  ill-timed," 
I  said,  in  freezing  tones.  The  slumbering  trait 
in  my  strange  nature  had  wakened,  like  a  torpid 
serpent.  Her  last  reply  only  stung  me  as  if  it 


TIIE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  177 

were  the  most  cruel  raillery.  "  I  had  better  leave 
you,''  I  pursued,  "without  further  delay.  Let 
this  Casimir  Laprade,  whose  very  existence  you 
have  concealed  from  me  until  now,  reign  with 
due  honors  in  my  stead.  It  is  not  too  late  for 
you  to  bestow  on  him  all  the  love  he  merits.  I 
abdicate  in  his  favor  from  to-day.  You  have  given 
me  an  education,  and  with  it  I  am  willing  to  fight 
my  way  alone." 

Every  word  of  these  rash  and  ungrateful  sen 
tences  I  firmly  meant.  But  as  I  walked  toward 
the  door  of  the  chamber  an  alarmed  cry  broke 
from  Mrs.  Dorian.  She  hurried  after  me ;  she 
almost  dragged  me  toward  a  couch,  and  clung 
about  my  neck  with  a  clasp  that  I  must  have  em 
ployed  roughness  to  shake  off.  It  was  her  turn 
to  use  reproaches,  and  she  used  them  in  a  torrent 
of  tearful  utterance.  At  the  same  time  no  impet 
uous  avowal  of  her  fondness  was  absent.  She 
appealed  to  my  long  knowledge  of  her  devotion ; 
she  challenged  me  to  recall  an  act  of  neglect  in 
all  the  years  we  had  spent  together  ;  she  reminded 
me  of  how  her  letters  had  breathed  unaltered  ten 
derness  ;  she  accused  me  of  disloyalty  in  suspect 
ing  that  a  new  regard  could  ever  displace  the  old ; 
she  questioned  me  whether  my  dead  mother  her 
self  could  have  watched  more  faithfully  over  my 
life,  or  known  a  sweeter  joy  at  my  success. 

She  ended  not  merely  by  convincing  me  of  my 
folly  ;  I  was  covered  with  humiliation  as  well,  and 


178  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

besought  her  pardon  in  tones  of  the  most  mortified 
self-abasement.  The  revulsion  had  come  with  me, 
as  it  had  come  in  earlier  days,  bringing  shame  and 
remorse.  As  my  own  mother  had  done  long  ago, 
she  forgave  me  all  too  easily. 

"  I  must  see  your  nephew,"  I  at  length  said  to 
her.  "Above  all  things  I  now  long  to  see  and 
know  him.  If  he  shows  aversion  toward  me  I 
will  conquer  it.  I  am  determined  that  we  shall 
be  friends." 

This  was  not  the  sole  determination  that  I  had 
already  made ;  there  was  another,  though  as  yet 
I  could  scarcely  have  clad  it  with  language. 

"  You  will  find  that  he  has  no  aversion,  Otho," 
declared  my  guardian.  "  It  is  not  in  his  nature. 
But  shall  we  not  go  together?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "No,"  I  answered;  "it  seems 
to  me  better  that  I  should  go  alone." 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  breaking  over 
her  face.  "  I  understand,"  she  said,  nodding.  "  It 
is  a  subtle  question ;  I  am  excessively  fond  of  all 
subtle  questions,  as  you  know." 

She  had  wholly  regained  her  composure  by  this 
time.  I  very  well  knew  that  the  episode  of  my 
jealousy  would  soon  take  a  retired  place  in  her 
memory.  It  had  been  one  of  her  "  impressions," 
in  which  she  saw  me  assume  a  romantically  fiery 
attitude.  Even  what  followed  had  not  been  with 
out  its  attractive  side.  As  a  little  bit  of  drama 
its  residual  thrill  might  even  be  more  permanent ; 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  179 

and  then,  too,  it  had  stirred  her  to  the  depths. 
She  was  a  woman  who  was  perpetually  employing 
her  nervous  system  as  a  kind  of  pictorial  agency. 
There  was  no  experience  from  which  she  could 
not  extract  some  sort  of  artistic  value.  I  have 
often  thought  her  prosperity  a  favor  thrown  away 
by  fate ;  she  would  have  so  embellished  and  ideal 
ized  poverty. 

I  had  little  difficulty  in  finding  Casimir  Laprade. 
His  studio  was  not  just  in  an  attic,  though  I  should 
say  it  came  within  one  stairway  of  being  so  ;  per 
haps  you  must  have  ascended  if  you  had  gone  to 
his  bed-chamber,  and  in  that  case  his  aunt  had 
rightly  surmised.  It  was  a  shabby  studio,  and  yet 
it  bore  touches  of  Oriental  color,  in  a  hanging 
spangled  robe  or  a  quaint  damascened  weapon. 
Sketches  and  paintings  of  many  sorts  were  scat 
tered  about  the  rather  grimy  walls,  and  two  small 
windows,  draped  carelessly  in  crimson  of  different 
shades,  as  though  to  hide  ugly  or  dingy  cornices, 
looked  down  upon  a  narrow,  bustling  street  of  the 
Quartier  Latin.  The  young  artist  had  not  suffered 
from  Mrs.  Dorian's  dainty  description  of  him. 
The  cloud  of  blond  hair,  the  poetic  face,  the  dark 
velvet  coat,  struck  me  at  a  glance.  His  manner, 
too,  as  I  soon  perceived,  greatly  partook  of  shy 
ness.  When  I  had  presented  my  card,  and  he 
had  glanced  at  it,  I  saw  a  slight  flush  rise  in  his 
pale  cheek.  He  appeared  abashed  and  a  trifle 
dismayed,  but  no  embarrassment  could  make  that 


180  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

flexible  figure  of  his,  a  little  below  the  usual 
stature,  err  on  the  side  of  awkwardness,  or  rob  his 
gestures  of  a  native,  peculiar  grace. 

I  had  already  hit,  so  to  speak,  upon  my  proper 
policy  of  self-introduction.  As  I  seated  myself 
in  the  chair  politely  proffered  me,  I  assumed  a 
mien  of  somewhat  buoyant  civility,  guarding  at 
the  same  time  against  the  least  phrase  that  could 
be  construed  as  patronage. 

"  Paris,  Monsieur  Laprade,"  I  said,  "  is  the 
most  distracting  temptress  to  a  foreigner,  and  I, 
who  have  the  disadvantage  of  not  being  one  of 
her  citizens,  who  have  known  her  only  now  and 
then  by  delightful  glimpses,  must  plead  the  excuse 
of  her  many  pleasures  for  having  deferred  until 
now  this  most  desired  visit." 

He  looked  at  me  almost  wonderingly  with  his 
large,  dreamy  gray  eyes.  They  were  eyes  in 
which  I  seemed  to  trace  the  spell  of  many  a  lovely 
though  lonely  revery. 

"  I  did  not  hope,  Monsieur,  for  the  honor  of  a 
visit  from  you,"  he  answered,  with  all  the  courtesy 
of  his  race  plain  amid  the  diffidence  that  still 
thralled  him.  "  I  had  supposed  that  you  would 
have  many  engagements,  many  diversions." 

"  None  of  these,"  I  said,  "  could  have  kept  me 
from  seeking  the  acquaintance  of  one  so  nearly 
akin  to  my  beloved  guardian,  and  so  high  in  that 
amiable  lady's  esteem."  (Ah,  what  a  tongue 
the  French  is,  and  how  you  can  say  trippingly 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  181 

in  it  that  which  would  sound  ponderous  else 
where !) 

He  brightened,  at  this,  and  drew  his  chair  a 
little  nearer  my  own.  "  My  aunt  is  indeed  a  most 
charming  woman,"  he  said.  "But  as  for  your 
seeking  me,  Monsieur,  I  fear  that  you  will  find 
but  little.  I  have  only  my  drawings  and  my 
daubs  —  many  of  them  crude  enough,  the  vieux 
galons  of  boyhood.  I  live  almost  wholly  alone, 
with  my  dreams  and  "... 

"  Your  ambitions  ?  "  I  questioned,  as  he  paused. 
At  this  I  rose  and  added :  "  Pray  let  me  see  some 
of  your  work.  I  have  already  heard  your  aunt 
praise  it." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  rising  too.  "  She  is 
a  very  lenient  critic.  She  had  made  up  her  mind 
beforehand  to  be  pleased  with  all  that  I  showed  her. 
You  will  be  more  severe,  Monsieur,  and  justly  so." 

I  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes,  smiling.  I  was 
resolved  upon  winning  his  good  will.  If  nothing 
had  occurred  to  force  in  me  the  choice  of  such  an 
issue,  I  should  still  have  preferred  it.  He  and 
his  accompaniments,  as  might  be  said,  had  both 
captivated  me.  It  was  all  like  a  pretty  page  from 
some  French  romancer.  My  imagination  seemed 
to  demand  of  him  that  his  youth,  his  beauty,  his 
almost  feminine  sweetness  of  demeanor,  his  gentle 
modesty,  his  refined  solitude,  should  crown  their 
happy  unison  by  the  possession  of  genius. 

"I  have  seen  some  good  art,"  I   replied,  "in 


182  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

other  cities  besides  this.  But  I  am  never  severe 
with  originality,  wherever  found." 

He  started.  "  You  have  heard  that  what  I  do  is 
original  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  presentiment  that  I  shall  discover 
it  so." 

He  became  serious  and  thoughtful ;  it  was  plain 
that  I  had  touched  his  self-belief  as  an  artist.  He 
pointed  toward  a  picture  in  oil,  half  finished,  and 
resting  on  an  easel  near  at  hand.  "  Tell  me  if  you 
care  for  this,"  he  said,  moving  his  eyes  more  than 
once  while  he  spoke  from  the  canvas  to  my  face. 
"I  call  it  The  Ne\v-Born  Soul.  You  see  how  shad 
owy  I  have  made  my  background ;  that  little 
white  point  on  the  left  is  our  planet,  our  star, 
which  the  spirit  of  a  young  girl  has  just  quitted. 
She  is  journeying  through  space.  Only  a  little 
gleam  of  the  great  unknown  light  has  broken  upon 
her ;  you  may  mark  it  in  the  shining  of  the  hair 
along  one  temple.  She  has  not  yet  realized  her 
own  immortality.  She  is  full  of  wonder,  but  she 
is  not  afraid,  and  the  loves  and  joys  of  the  earth 
have  not  quite  left  her.  .  I  tried  to  show  this  in 
the  tremor  of  mouth  and  chin,  and  in  that  back 
ward  reach  of  one  hand."  .  . 

He  spoke  hurriedly  but  with  such  an  unconscious 
fervor  that  even  these  few  words  told  how  his  art 
was  his  life.  I  remained  silent  for  several  min 
utes,  wishing  to  study  the  picture  well  and  get 
lucid  reasons  for  the  praise  which  I  was  already 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  183 

certain  that  I  should  have  just  cause  to  pronounce. 
Then  I  slowly  addressed  rny  companion,  weighing 
every  word  as  I  did  so. 

"You  have  put  into  color  —  and  the  deepest, 
the  richest  color  —  a  bit  of  exquisite  poetry.  You 
have  the  great  gift,  you  blend  the  poet  with  the 
painter.  Your  thought  is  modern  ;  you  are  a  true 
enfant  du  siecle  ;  but  your  spirit  has  lived  with  the 
grand  dead  masters,  and  in  every  stroke  that  your 
brush  has  given  I  note  an  intolerance  of  pettiness 
and  finicality.  Yes,  you  have  a  large,  firm,  ample 
style  ;  I  have  seen  little  to  surpass  it  in  the  salons 
of  to-day.  .  .  There,"  I  suddenly  broke  off,  laugh 
ing  ;  "  that  is  the  first  elaborate  art-criticism  that  I 
ever  delivered.  How  would  it  look  if  printed  in 
a  feuilleton  ?  " 

He  caught  my  hand  an  instant  later,  and  so 
moist  a  glow  filled  his  gray  eyes  that  I  almost 
expected  tears  to  drop  from  them.  "  These  are 
most  stimulating  words,"  he  said,  the  quiver  of 
real  emotion  in  his  tones.  "  Ah,  Monsieur,  believe 
me,  it  is  not  half  so  much  the  praise  that  I  love  as 
the  sincerity  of  it !  " 

He  showed  me  more  of  his  work,  after  that, 
and  though  its  merit  constantly  varied,  a  uniform 
sweep  and  lift  of  intention  —  an  effort  to  portray 
Nature  as  he  felt  her  and  not  merely  as  she  was 
—  an  intellectual  dominance,  whether  imaginative, 
visionary  or  fantastic,  had  set  its  stamp  on  nearly 
every  achievement. 


184  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

I  think  we  were  friends  when  we  parted  that 
day.  I  knew  I  had  made  him  anxious  to  meet 
me  again  ;  the  lingering  pressure  of  his  hand  as 
he  bade  me  farewell  told  me  so,  and  the  promise 
which  he  gave  me  of  an  early  visit  was  a  still  surer 
sign. 

On  returning  to  our  apartments,  I  found  my 
guardian  full  of  eager  questions.  How  had  I  liked 
Casimir  ?  Was  he  abnormally  shy  ?  Had  he 
received  me  with  cordiality?  Would  he  come  to 
us  and  be  friendly  hereafter?  Did  I  think  his 
talents  remarkable  ?  and  so  on,  with  an  ebullition 
of  vivacious  inquiry.  My  first  responses  delight 
ed  Mrs.  Dorian,  but  her  pleasure  grew,  as  her 
dancing  eyes  told  me,  while  I  said : 

"  He  is  a  painter  of  rare  gifts.  He  has  what 
artists  sometimes  call  sneeringly  the  literary  and 
pictorial  quality,  but  this  he  nearly  always  keeps, 
or  tries  to  keep,  subordinate.  He  is  rapidly  mas 
tering  the  important  secret  of  what  Art  should 
not  do.  He  has  still  much  to  learn,  however,  as 
would  seem  but  natural  at  his  age.  His  moods 
are  exalted,  ethereal,  mystic,  and  occasionally 
even  sybilline.  He  is  an  enemy  of  detail,  and  his 
handling  is  broad,  vigorous,  yet  secure.  His  eyes 
seem  peculiarly  open  (as  I  observed  in  his  land 
scapes)  to  the  power  of  suggestive  analogy  between 
Nature  and  our  own  worldly  experience.  While 
we  talked  together  he  told  me  that  in  the  rank 
riots  of  weeds,  the  noisome  and  malarial  swamp, 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  185 

the  blighted  and  incomplete  vegetation,  the  slug 
gish  pool,  the  dried-up  water-course  and  the  tract 
of  barren  dreariness,  he  could  trace  easy  similitude 
of  the  pride,  arrogance,  tyranny,  bigotry,  pursuant 
misfortune  and  unexplained  destiny  of  mankind ; 
and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  purity,  high  purpose, 
the  wisdom  of  self-control,  the  sweet  domestic 
pleasures,  the  rich  reward  of  an  unsullied  life,  are 
shown  to  him  in  perpetual  allegory  by  the  full- 
flowing  river,  the  sublime  mountain,  the  rhythms 
of  tides  on  their  shores,  the  pastoral  tinklings  of 
brooks  through  meadows,  and  the  splendors  of 
sunset  over  lengths  of  peaceful  country.  Sympa 
thies  like  these  are  the  very  life-blood  of  all  great 
Art.  They  err  who  believe  that  all  the  best  paint 
ers  have  merely  been  poets  spoiled  in  the  making." 

"  You  enchant  me,  Otho,"  said  my  guardian, 
"  in  ranking  Casimir's  ability  so  high.  You  de 
scribe  him,  too,  as  only  a  poet  could ! " 

"  A  poet !  Ah,  madame,  do  not  take  my  gush 
ing  little  rhapsody  for  poetry.  I  shall  never  either 
write  or  speak  any,  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  Hush !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  an  irritated  toss 
of  the  head.  "  I  treasure  those  copies  of  verses 
which  you  sent  me  from  Zurich." 

I  laughed.  "It  is  so  easy  to  say  nothing  melo 
diously,  in  French  verse.  What  I  sent  you  was 
only  polished  commonplace.  Trust  me,  my  dear 
madame,  I  have  measured  my  own  capacity  very 
carefully  in  all  directions." 


186  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

"  And  in  which  have  you  found  that  it  excels  ?  " 

"In  none.  I  possess  simply  a  large  academic 
kind  of  mediocrity." 

"  Mediocrity !  Ah,  Otho !  Fi  done !  Every 
body  thinks  you  a  genius.  Wonderful  things  are 
expected  of  you !  " 

Again  I  laughed,  but  there  was  sadness  in  the 
sound.  "  Wonderful  things  will  never  come  from 
me.  I  am  a  high  table-land ;  I  have  not  a  single 
peak.  My  own  intellect  often  surprises  me ;  it  is 
so  tantalizingly  capable.  I  am  as  remote  from 
any  superfine  accomplishment  as  I  am  from  any 
notable  stupidity.  I  made  those  verses,  but  I  can 
solve  a  problem  in  Euclid  quite  as  well,  or  con 
strue  a  page  of  Thucydides,  or  even  sketch  Mont 
Blanc  from  Chamouny  in  aquarelle.  I  stop  no 
where,  but  I  excel  nowhere.  My  muse  is  a  tenth 
one  —  a  calm,  rather  erudite  dame,  an  adopted 
sister  of  the  other  nine,  and  no  true  daughter  of 
Zeus  and  Mnemosyne.  I  can  appreciate,  inves 
tigate,  formulate,  demonstrate,  criticise;  but  to 
invent,  create,  originate,  I  am  wholly  powerless. 
My  endowments  pause  at  nothing  and  yet  they 
pause  at  everything.  I  am  open  to  a  thousand 
thoughts,  yet  I  shall  never  give  the  world  one  that 
is  new." 

"  What  melancholy  you  breathe  into  your  con 
fession  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorian.  "  You  make  it 
quite  majestic.  Standing  by  that  window,  with 
the  late  sunlight  slanting  across  your  face,  you  are 


TEE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  187 

like  Byron  in  the  act  of  lamentation  for  no  special 
cause  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Your  head,  by 
the  way,  and  the  cast  of  your  features,  often  bear 
resemblance  to  his ;  I  think  I  have  mentioned  this 
before." 

"  You  have  mentioned  many  such  agreeable  mat 
ters  before,  madame,"  I  said  —  "  and  fancied  their 
existence." 

"  Bah ! "  she  cried,  smelling  her  vinaigrette 
vivaciously.  "  And  you  term  all  this  mediocrity  ! 
It  is  certainly  something  a  great  deal  higher." 

I  smiled.  "  It  is  not  Byron.  No,  and  it  is  not 
Casimir  Laprade." 

"  Whom  you  believe  possessed  of  genius  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"But  of  yourself  .  .  have  you  decided  on  no 
profession,  occupation?" 

"  On  none,  as  yet." 

My  guardian  straightened  herself  in  her  easy- 
chair.  "  Then  I  must  find  one  for  you.  I  received 
a  letter  to-day  from  my  lawyers  in  America.  It 
was  about  the  property  there.  Someone  must  go 
and  look  after  it.  You  shall  go.  Why  not  ?  It 
is  yours  as  well  as  mine  already ;  some  day,  when 
I  am  no  more,  it  will  be  wholly  yours." 

I  stood  irresolute,  for  a  moment,  there  bythe  win 
dow.  Then  I  slowly  walked  toward  my  guardian, 
pausing  near  her  chair.  "  Not  wholly  mine,"  I  said. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  with  surprise. 
"  My  will  is  made." 


188  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  You  must  alter  it,  madame." 

"  Otho,  what  is  this  ?  " 

"You  must  alter  it,"  I  said,  taking  her  hand, 
"in  favor  of  Casimir  Laprade.  Divide  the  prop 
erty  equally  between  him  and  me,  if  you  please, 
but  at  least  make  us  co-heirs.  This  may  not  be 
your  duty,  since,  in  spite  of  his  kinship,  you  are 
privileged  to  leave  your  wealth  where  you  please. 
But  it  is  my  duty  to  insist  upon  the  division." 

She  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand,  yet  I  forcibly 
retained  it.  "  Upon  my  word,  you  show  an  ex 
traordinary  change  of  mood,"  she  declared  stiffly. 
"  A  little  while  ago  "  — 

"  Please  do  not  refer  to  a  little  while  ago,"  I 
interrupted.  "  That  is  just  what  I  would  like  to 
have  you  forget." 

"  I  see.  You  wish  to  impose  upon  yourself  a 
penance." 

"  Perhaps.  And  yet  this  is  far  from  being  my 
only  motive.  Casimir  is  your  sister's  son.  But 
for  me  you  would  doubtless  have  made  him  your 
sole  heir.  I  shall  never  feel  mentally  at  rest  un 
til  you  have  accepted  my  view  of  his  deserts.  I 
throw  myself  now  upon  that  indulgent  goodness 
which  I  have  so  often  received  from  you  without 
seeking  it.  And  if  it  fails  me  at  this  time  of 
request,  of  need,  of  entreaty,  I  shall  be  sorely  dis 
appointed.  By  acting  to  your  nephew  and  myself 
as  if  we  were  brothers,  you  will  make  the  bond 
closer  between  yourself  and  me.  Believe,  also, 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  189 

that  I  speak  with  the  most  profound  sincerity 
when  I  add  one  more  clause  to  my  petition.  It  is 
this :  I  would  rather  you  left  every  franc  of  your 
fortune  to  charitable  objects  than  that  you  made 
me  its  one  possessor." 

"  I  will  think  it  over,"  she  said,  softening. 
"  There  would,  of  course,  be  more  than  enough 
for  two.  The  money  has  been  piling  itself  up, 
there  across  the  water;  I  cannot  have  spent  quarter 
of  my  income  for  years.  .  Yes,  I  will  think  it  over." 

I  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead.  "You  will 
do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  answered,  with  a  little 
stroke  of  calculated  boldness ;  "  for  you  have 
already  consented." 

"  Comme  tu  es  hardi,  mon  cher!"  she  retorted, 
trying  not  to  smile.  "And  Casimir?  If  he 
should  refuse  to  profit  by  this  division?" 

"Leave  his  refusal  or  consent  to  me.  I  will 
break  the  news  gradually.  Trust  me." 

"You  speak  as  if  you  and  he  were  to  live 
henceforward  in  the  closest  intimacy." 

"I  should  like  to  make  him  a  member  of  our 
little  household  —  with  your  permission." 

She  gave  her  wonted  laugh,  here,  at  its  merri 
est.  "  My  permission  ?  Of  course  you  have  it. 
And  you  will  accomplish  your  plan.  .  .  Ah,  I 
begin  to  think  that  is  what  you  always  will  do, 
accomplish  your  plan,  whatever  it  is.  Perhaps 
that  is  to  be  your  province  — always  to  make  every 
body  do  as  you  desire." 


190  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

I  detected  the  undercurrent  of  surrender  in 
these  final  words,  and  was  not  unprepared  to  have 
her  acquiesce,  that  very  evening,  a  few  hours  later, 
in  my  proposition  of  a  meeting  with  her  notary  on 
the  morrow.  Casimir  Laprade  came  to  visit  us  a 
day  or  two  afterward,  but  before  he  came  a  new 
will  had  been  drawn,  just  as  I  had  wished. 

The  intercourse  between  my  guardian's  nephew 
and  myself  now  rapidly  ripened  into  a  warm 
friendship.  It  was  not  till  I  had  induced  him  to 
dwell  permanently  beneath  the  same  roof  with  us 
that  I  ventured  upon  the  subject  of  his  altered 
prospects.  I  waited  until  I  was  sure  of  the  influ 
ence  I  had  gained  over  him,  and  then  I  spoke. 
Already  he  had  learned  almost  to  hang  upon  my 
words :  the  love  I  had  inspired  in  him  was  even 
more  than  fraternal.  My  keen  appreciation  of 
his  artistic  worth  had  first  roused  this  ardent  feel 
ing,  but  no  egotism  ultimately  held  sway  there. 
In  my  nature  he  recognized  something  comple 
mentary  to  his  own.  Where  he  was  retiring, 
timid,  undecided,  even  impolitic  through  a  lack 
of  self-reliance,  I  was  assertive,  intrepid,  equable. 
All  his  strength  of  character  seemed  to  lie  in  his 
lovely  genius,  which  I  admired  still  more  as  I  grew 
familiar  with  its  depths  and  heights,  its  glow  and 
shadow.  But  it  grasped  his  nature  and  tempera 
ment  with  a  weakening  hold ;  it  made  him  unfit 
to  deal  with  men,  and  boyishly  pliable  under  the 
stress  of  all  coarse  and  rugged  contact.  So  deep 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  191 

and  durable  was  the  enthusiasm  which  it  woke  in 
him  that  I  saw  with  amazement  his  indifference  to 
womanly  charms.  His  ideal  was  his  mistress,  and 
he  served  her  in  devoted  transport.  The  nearest 
that  he  ever  approached  to  a  sentiment  of  the  heart 
was  his  affection  for  me ;  that  was  indeed,  in  its 
way,  a  passion,  for  it  set  me  upon  a  pedestal  and 
paid  me  tender  obeisance.  I  sometimes  fancied 
that  he  was  a  being  who  could  love  only  in  this 
fashion,  with  the  grosser  senses  quite  at  rest,  and 
the  heart,  the  brain,  the  spirit  at  high  pulsation. 
I  cannot  call  him  feminine  except  in  the  extreme 
sensitiveness  of  his  mental  mould ;  for  he  possessed 
courage  (he  had  once  fought  a  dangerous  duel  with 
swords  on  receiving  an  insult  from  a  fellow-student 
in  the  Art  School,  and  had  severely  wounded  his 
adversary)  ;  and  again,  in  physical  training,  nerve, 
coolness,  energy,  he  by  no  means  missed  the  full 
manly  share.  But  for  all  this,  he  was  of  feeble 
fibre  to  meet  exigencies,  to  deal  with  difficulties, 
to  gauge  and  seize  opportunities,  to  touch  and 
pierce  human  fallacies.  He  was  not  made  for 
the  world,  though  the  world  was  made  for  him, 
since  he  transfigured  and  re-created  hundreds 
of  its  harshest  traits  by  the  sure  magic  of  his 
art! 

When  I  told  him  what  my  guardian  had  done 
for  his  future,  the  tidings  moved  him  to  tears, 
unshed  though  seen.  I  dreaded  his  refusal  of  the 
boon,  however,  and  while  I  witnessed  his  wonder 


192  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

at  this  intelligence,  I  hastened  to  add,  before  it 
should  really  pass : 

"  The  affair  was  of  my  own  earnest  prompting, 
Casimir,  and  nothing  that  I  have  ever  done  has 
given  me  keener  satisfaction.  It  binds  us  more 
closely  together,  mon  ami,  and  instead  of  a  few 
thousands  which  I  shall  not  need,  it  brings  me  the 
welcome  and  cheering  comradeship  of  a  brother." 

That  last  word  caused  him  to  start ;  one  of  the 
tears  that  brimmed  his  eyes  now  slipped  along 
the  dark  curve  of  its  lower  lash  and  fell  upon 
his  cheek.  His  chin  trembled,  and  he  gnawed  his 
underlip  as  though  to  force  self-control.  But  sud 
denly  he  threw  back  that  beautiful  head  of  his, 
and  almost  sprang  toward  me.  In  another  second 
he  had  seized  either  of  my  shoulders  and  was  look 
ing  into  my  face  with  searching  intentness. 

"  Brother !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  do  not  de 
ceive  yourself?  You  are  certain  that  you  already 
care  for  me  enough  to  wish  our  lives  joined  so 
closely?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  prepared  for  the  extremely 
French  embrace  to  which  past  experience  in 
friendships  of  school  and  college  had  long  ago 
inured  me.  As  it  was,  I  returned  the  embrace 
with  a  fervor  truly  Gallic.  Conscience  entered, 
beyond  doubt,  into  my  dealings  with  Casimir; 
Mrs.  Dorian  had  hit  the  truth ;  I  wanted  to  punish 
myself  for  that  dark  hour  of  imperious  jealousy. 
But  I  now  felt  that  the  punishment  threatened  to 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  193 

become  a  most  active  agency  of  comfort  and  enjoy 
ment,  since  this  fortunately  righted  nephew  had 
every  endearing  quality  and  not  a  single  repelling 
one. 

The  consent  of  Casimir  quickly  followed  that 
little  outburst  of  sentiment.  I  went  to  Mrs. 
Dorian,  proud  of  my  victory,  and  told  her  that 
all  was  now  definitely  arranged.  If  I  sailed  for 
America  in  the  following  autumn  —  as  at  pres 
ent  seemed  the  inevitable  course  —  Casimir,  who 
thrilled  with  curiosity  to  see  the  New  World  — 
would  gladly  accompany  me.  "  I  believe  there  is 
little  that  can  ever  separate  us,"  I  said,  "  swiftly 
formed  as  our  mutual  attachment  has  been.  The 
relations  between  us  are  like  those  of  an  elder 
toward  a  younger  brother."  Here  I  gave  a  mean 
ing  smile.  "It  is  perhaps  needless,  madame,"  I 
continued,  "for  me  to  state  which  part  Casimir 
plays  and  which  part  belongs  to  me." 

"  You  lead,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Dorian,  approv 
ingly.  "  That  is  but  proper.  To  think  that  you 
are  now  talking  of  crossing  the  Atlantic  together, 
you  two !  How  the  unexpected  does  happen  in 
this  topsy-turvy  world !  Well,  if  you  both  go  to 
America  I  suppose  it  may  in  a  measure  reconcile 
me  to  going.  But  I  assure  you,  Otho,  I  shrink 
from  putting  those  miles  of  sea  between  myself 
and  civilization." 

"Such  words  would  stab  me  to  the  American 
soul  if  I  thought  them  serious,"  was  my  reply. 


194  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  However,  madame,  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak 
of  going  with  Casimir  and  myself.  It  is  all  well 
enough  to  say  that  you  will  give  me  full  power  of 
attorney  in  dealing  with  your  affairs  ;  but  your 
presence  in  New- York  will  be  vastly  preferable,  if 
not  indispensable." 

"  I  will  reflect  upon  your  advice,"  said  my  guard 
ian,  with  a  rather  dramatic  shudder.  "  This 
means,  you  know,  that  I  will  lose  several  pounds 
and  forfeit  my  appetite.  Ah,  it  is  so  hard  to  be 
resigned  to  certain  stern  facts !  It  is  so  hard  to 
believe  that  the  same  wise  Providence  which  gave 
us  Paris  was  capable  of  producing  America !  "  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  I  had  gone  not  a  little  into  the  soci 
ety  of  my  countrypeople,  and  had  made  not  a  few 
interesting  and  prized  acquaintances.  The  Prin 
cess  Orsini  had  left  Paris  for  Norway  with  the 
intention  of  turning  the  midnight  sun  into  a 
honeymoon ;  but  her  friend,  Miss  Gramercey  (if 
the  title  be  not  unfair),  still  remained  in  town.  I 
met  the  latter  a  number  of  times  at  various  enter 
tainments  before  she  asked  me  to  visit  her.  When 
the  invitation  came  I  gladly  accepted  it,  for  in 
spite  of  our  differences  her  society  both  won  and 
engrossed  me.  We  met  on  no  unequal  terms ; 
there  was  not  a  millionnaire  in  the  great  French 
capital  who  lived  with  more  luxury  and  elegance 
than  myself,  though  I  abhorred  the  ostentation 
of  extravagance  and  tempered  my  splendor  with 
taste.  The  position  of  Mrs.  Dorian's  adopted  son 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  195 

and  probable  inheritor  of  her  wealth  was  one  to 
provoke  much  attention  among  the  Americans 
with  whom  I  was  constantly  thrown.  My  guard 
ian  had  been  thought  eccentric  in  New-York,  but 
she  had  held  her  select  place  there,  nevertheless, 
during  former  years.  I  soon  found  myself  popular 
and  courted.  Besides  being  a  person  whom  no 
ambitious  mamma  could  afford  conscientiously  to 
overlook,  I  liked  the  society  of  pretty  women  and 
agreeable  men,  even  while  deliberative  criticism 
pronounced  them  vapid  and  unsatisfying.  My 
youth  and  my  long  association  with  studious  pur 
suits  made  the  lighter  mood  of  jest  and  indolence 
at  least  temporarily  pleasant.  I  possessed  the  art 
of  amusing  my  compatriots ;  I  had  a  ready  though 
at  times  a  somewhat  caustic  wit ;  I  was  as  gallant, 
modish,  debonair  as  they  desired  ;  and  with  regard 
to  my  good  looks  I  could  sometimes  ill  repress 
that  vanity  which  pushes  forth  so  facile  a  crop  in 
the  hearts  of  the  young  when  persistent  flattery 
sows  her  seed  there. 

Briefly,  even  at  so  unfavorable  a  Parisian  sea 
son  I  had  become  the  fashion.  Ada  Gramercey 
had  undoubtedly  seen  this  when  I  began  to  enrol 
myself  upon  her  list  of  permitted  admirers,  and  I 
was  confident  that  the  preference  I  showed  her 
did  not  prove  the  more  irksome  because  of  it.  Her 
pride  was  a  continual  secret  torment  to  me.  If 
there  had  not  been  intellect  behind  it  —  if  I  had 
not  repeatedly  caught  glimpses  of  a  sweet  womanly 


196  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

nature  through  occasional  breaks  in  its  chilling 
investiture  —  I  might  have  held  the  whole  mani 
festation  as  trivial  and  paltry.  As  it  was  I  did  not 
tell  myself  that  I  was  falling  in  love  with  her.  I 
incessantly  felt  my  spirit  harassed  by  the  thought : 
If  she  knew  my  real  birth,  how  she  might  shrink 
from  me  !  For  years  no  such  haunting  reflection 
had  troubled  my  mind.  I  had  accepted  my  new 
station  in  life  with  a  sense  that  every  succeeding 
autumn  cast  its  fresh  relay  of  obliterating  leaves 
upon  the  hideous  and  unhappy  past.  All  had 
seemed  so  deeply  buried  until  this  young  girl, 
with  her  proud,  soft  hazel  eye,  her  erect  figure  and 
her  elastic  step,  unconsciously  swept  away  what 
covered  so  hated  a  grave. 

Like  a  death's-head  amid  all  my  mirth  gleamed 
this  conjecture  as  to  how  she  would  treat  me  if 
she  were  once  to  meet  the  actual  truth,  naked, 
uncompromising,  merciless. 

And  what  was  this  truth  ?  Again  and  again  I 
silently  reviewed  its  record.  I,  Otho  Claud,  be 
lieved  to  be  the  child  of  a  beloved  Belgian  friend 
of  my  guardian,  whom  she  had  adopted  as  the  heir 
to  her  great  wealth,  was  Otho  Clauss,  the  son  of  a 
German  peasant  by  a  bourgeoise  French  mother, 
whom  my  father  had  foully  murdered,  afterward 
paying  for  the  crime  in  a  death  of  ignominy  on  the 
scaffold ! 

It  was  in  this  dreary  and  pitiable  way  that  a 
great  passion  —  the  first  and  only  one  I  was  ever 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  197 

destined  to  know  —  dawned  upon  my  soul !  The 
sins  of  the  parents  shall  be  visited  on  their  chil 
dren  !  The  inexorable  meaning  of  that  dreadful 
announcement,  put  by  Christians  in  the  mouth  of 
the  God  they  worship,  was  beginning  to  warn  and 
taunt  me  from  a  new  and  unforeseen  source ! 


198  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 


IX. 


HE  who  has  read  thus  far  in  the  pages  of  these 
confessions  must  have  understood  them  but  ill  if 
they  fail  to  place  before  him  the  solemn  truth  of 
Heredity  as  their  stimulus  and  motive.  At  the 
same  time  I  would  offer  the  reminder  that  I  make 
this  record  of  my  life  with  no  wish  to  employ  such 
truth  either  as  excuse  or  palliative  for  the  course 
of  action  revealed  here.  I  am  aware  how  stern 
would  be  the  disclaimer  of  thousands  against  such 
a  method,  and  how  relentlessly  it  would  be  dis 
puted  that  the  victim  of  any  inherited  vice  or 
weakness  had  not,  in  a  case  like  my  own,  the 
stoutest  defensive  armor  against  overthrow  or 
surrender.  To  appear  as  the  champion  of  a  blind 
fatalism  is  far  from  my  present  aim.  However 
pitilessly  science  may  speak  on  this  point  —  how 
ever  exact  and  clear  may  be  the  deductions  from 
certain  undeniable  data  —  however  psychological 
proof  may  demonstrate  that  moral  disease  follows 
the  same  rigid  law  as  physical,  and  that  both  can 
be  transmitted  from  parent  to  child  with  an  equal 
readiness  —  I  am  none  the  less  willing  to  grant 
the  existence,  after  birth,  of  vastly  potent  modify- 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  199 

ing  forces.  There  are  medicines  for  the  soul  no 
less  than  for  the  body.  The  world  of  philosophy 
and  ethics,  as  that  of  surgery  and  pathology, 
teems  with  precious  curative  discoveries  and  re 
sources.  True,  there  are  many  beings  who  must 
drag  along  unhelped  the  misshapen  limb,  as  there 
are  many  who  must  bear  till  death  the  perverse 
and  vicious  brain.  The  aid  given  to  myself  was 
plenteous,  cogent.  If  the  weapon  is  ever  put  into 
a  man's  hand  wherewith  he  may  beat  out  his  own 
future  as  he  will,  then  just  as  tough  a  means  of 
self-amelioration  was  set  within  my  grasp.  I  grant 
this.  But  the  problem  of  a  foreordained  destiny 
must  ever  remain  unsolved  —  at  least  with  a  few 
intellects,  of  which  mine  had  now  become  one. 
As  long,  I  argued,  as  human  will  continues  the 
unravelled  mystery  that  we  find  it,  no  adequate 
answer  may  be  rendered  those  two  sombre  ques 
tions  :  How  far  can  we  escape  becoming  what  our 
parents  have  made  us  ?  —  how  far  may  education 
and  enlightenment  avert  from  us  the  doom  of 
sinful  heritage  ? 

These  reflections  hardly  concern  the  present 
stage  of  my  history,  and  I  do  not  know  why  they 
have  crept  into  this  portion  of  it,  unless  with  some 
vague  relation  to  the  distressing  tremors  which 
now  disturbed  me.  It  was  a  period  in  which  one 
longs  for  a  confidant,  and  again  and  again  I  felt 
tempted  to  tell  Casimir  everything.  I  would 
often  spend  an  hour  in  his  studio,  watching  him 


200  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

paint.  Our  affiliation  had  become  complete  in  all 
save  this  one  sad,  tormenting  matter.  Even  then 
he  suspected  my  love  for  Ada  Gramercey,  since  I 
had  frequently  dwelt  in  conversation  upon  her 
personal  attractions,  or  referred  with  perhaps  tell 
tale  severity  to  her  fault  of  pride.  But  pride  on 
my  own  part  kept  my  lips  firmly  sealed.  And 
oddly  enough  I  had  the  same  reason  for  preserv 
ing  silence  toward  Mrs.  Dorian.  She  knew  my 
past,  but  time  had  gathered  a  mist  across  it  which 
was  almost  like  absolute  oblivion.  To  break 
through  this  would  be  to  stand  before  her  in  a 
new,  humiliating  light  —  to  remind  her  that  the 
alienation  from  degrading  antecedents  had,  after 
all,  been  but  partially  effected  —  to  let  her  see 
that  the  mirk  and  smirch  from  which  her  kind 
hands  had  plucked  me  was  not  wholly  washed 
away. 

In  the  meantime  I  had  inevitably  met  her  other 
nephew,  Foulke  Dorian.  He  still  abode  in  Paris 
and  still  confirmed,  by  his  unceasing  attentions  to 
Ada  Gramercey,  the  report  that  he  was  her  undis- 
couraged  suitor.  I  was  presented  to  him  by  Miss 
Gramercey  herself,  while  we  both  chanced  to  be 
standing  at  that  young  lady's  side  during  an  even 
ing  entertainment.  It  occurred  to  me  that  his 
bow  was  wholly  without  cordiality,  and  indeed  a 
trifle  arrogant.  By  this  time  he  undoubtedly 
knew  my  name,  and  must  have  known  as  well  that 
his  aunt  was  in  Paris.  Not  to  have  sought  her 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  201 

out  was  fast  taking  the  hues  of  intentional  rude 
ness.  Few  words  were  then  exchanged  between 
us,  and  none  that  referred  to  our  brief  acquaint 
ance  of  long  ago  or  to  my  present  position  in  Mrs. 
Dorian's  home.  When  we  again  met  he  gave  me 
a  cold  bow,  which  I  answered  as  coldly.  Did  he 
resent  my  agreeable  reception  by  Miss  Gramercey  ? 
or  did  he  bear  some  sort  of  grudge  toward  his 
aunt  ?  or  was  there  any  possibility  of  his  not  being 
aware  what  relations  I  held  to  Mrs.  Dorian  ?  I 
consulted  with  the  latter  on  this  subject,  and  she 
replied  in  rather  vexed  tones : 

"If  I  chance  to  come  across  him,  Otho,  I  shall 
tell  him  very  plainly  what  I  think  of  his  having 
failed  to  look  me  up.  Meanwhile,  I  should  advise 
you  to  take  the  first  opportunity  }-ou  have  of 
mentioning  me,  besides  making  a  pointed  reference 
to  yourself." 

Such  an  opportunity  soon  came.  One  evening  I 
dined  in  Miss  Gramercey's  charming  apartments, 
overlooking  the  Champs  Elysdes.  It  was  a  dinner 
of  ten  or  twelve,  and  composed  chiefly  of  my  own 
countrypeople.  Colonel  Gramercey,  a  most  urbane 
and  faultless  host,  conducted  the  gentlemen  into 
a  pleasant  little  smoking-room  after  dinner,  for 
coffee  and  cigars.  The  weather  had  been  sultry 
all  day,  and  now  a  refreshing  breeze  blew  across 
a  little  balcony  straight  into  the  small  chamber 
where  we  had  gathered.  Foulke  Dorian  lit  a  cigar, 
and  then  moved  toward  one  of  the  long  windows, 


202  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

presently  disappearing  on  the  balcony  beyond, 
which  commanded  a  brilliant  view  of  the  great 
thoroughfare  glittering  with  a  thousand  merry 
lights.  I  followed  him  as  he  thus  disappeared. 
He  turned  on  hearing  my  footstep  cross  the  sill 
of  the  window.  He  looked  well  that  evening,  in 
the  sense  of  elegance,  composure  and  skilful  tailor 
ing.  His  dark  attire  and  white  necktie  became 
him  admirably.  He  had  a  pale,  calm,  inexpressive 
face,  with  eyelids  that  drooped  a  little  languidly 
and  a  mouth  whose  rather  sensuous  fulness  would 
have  been  improved  by  a  mustache.  When  you 
pronounced  him  markedly  gentlemanlike  in  ap 
pearance  you  paid  him  all  the  praise  that  was 
justice,  for  a  supercilious  curl  nearly  always  lay 
at  the  corners  of  his  lips  and  an  air  of  lazy  im 
portance  inseparably  marked  his  manner. 

I  was  determined  to  act  with  extreme  politeness. 
When,  on  turning,  he  had  recognized  me,  in  the 
soft  yet  sufficient  light,  I  at  once  spoke,  joining 
him  where  he  stood  beside  the  filigreed  rail  of  the 
balcony. 

I  spoke  in  English.  "  You  have  probably  for 
gotten,  Mr.  Dorian,"  I  said,  "our  first  meeting 
many  years  ago  in  America,  while  we  were  both 
still  boys." 

He  smiled  faintly  though  civilly,  and  knocked 
the  film  of  ash  from  his  cigar  with  the  pointed 
nail  of  one  finger.  "  I  do  remember  it,"  he  replied, 
in  a  low  drawl  that  certainly  betrayed  no  interest 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  203 

whatever.  "  We  met  only  for  a  few  minutes,  did 
we  not  ?  I  believe  you  were  taken  suddenly  ill, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  and  Mrs.  Dorian  led  you 
from  the  room." 

This  allusion  to  what  then  occurred  was  not 
pleasant,  as  may  be  imagined.  But  in  another 
way  it  gratified  me,  since  I  could  now  make 
prompt  use  of  his  having  so  soon  brought  up  the 
name  of  his  aunt. 

"  Quite  right,"  I  assented  composedly.  "  My 
health  at  that  time  was  poor.  But  your  aunt's 
kind  nursing  soon  restored  it,  and  this  is  only  one 
of  the  many  services  which  I  owe  her.  By  the  way, 
did  you  know  that  she  is  in  Paris  at  present  ?  " 

My  direct  question  embarrassed  him,  as  I  could 
see.  But  he  quickly  regained  his  collected  look. 
"  I  heard  of  it  a  short  time  ago,"  he  said ;  and  he 
convinced  me  that  the  words  were  false. 

"She  has  more  than  once  spoken  of  you,"  I 
now  struck  in,  "and  you  must  allow  me  to  add 
that  she  is  hurt  at  your  not  having  sought  her 
out." 

"I  —  I  should  have  done  so,"  he  said,  with  his 
neutral  drawl,  just  giving  me  a  glimpse  of  his 
chill,  dull  eyes  under  their  lifted  lids.  "  One  has 
so  many  engagements  here.  It  is  quite  a  rush, 
nearly  always.  Of  course  I  must  call.  Pray  tell 
my  aunt  that  I  will  do  so." 

"  I  will  tell  her  with  pleasure,"  I  replied.  "  She 
will  be  very  glad  to  hear  of  your  intention." 


204  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

He  gave  me  another  sidelong  look  while  he 
puffed  at  his  cigar.  "  Shall  you  be  in  Paris  long?" 
he  asked. 

"I  am  undecided.  There  may  be  reasons  for 
my  going  to  New- York.  Reasons,  I  mean,  which 
concern  the  settlement  of  Mrs.  Dorian's  prop 
erty." 

"Ah?"  .  .  He  swept  his  eyes  over  the  dusky 
yet  bright  expanse  below  us.  "  You  are  a  Belgian 
by  birth,  I  believe." 

"  Yes." 

I  hated  the  lie  heartily  enough,  but  in  his  cool, 
indolent  way  he  had  dragged  it  from  me. 

"  You  have  relatives  in  Brussels,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  A  few  distant  ones." 

"  Whom  you  never  see  ?  " 

"  Rarely." 

"  Ah  .  .  yes  .  .  and  my  aunt  has  formally 
adopted  you.  You  will  become  her  heir,  no  doubt. 
It  would  surely  be  most  cruel  if  she  did  not  make 
you  so,  after  being  so  good  these  many  years, 
would  it  not  ?  But  I  fancy  all  that  is  thoroughly 
arranged." 

The  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice  was  just  ob 
servable  and  no  more.  But  it  was  there  beyond 
question.  I  felt  stung  to  anger,  and  yet  I 
masked  the  sensation  under  a  careless  repose. 

"  Mrs.  Dorian's  inclinations  are  her  own.  It  is 
probable  that  I  will  receive  a  share  of  her  fortune, 
however,  if  I  should  outlive  her." 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  205 

"  Outlive  her."  He  took  his  cigar  from  his 
mouth  and  leaned  back  his  head  a  little,  laughing 
as  at  some  unexpected  joke.  "  Really,  that  is  very 
good  !  It's  what  they  call  a  happy  way  of  hitting 
off  a  thing." 

"I  had  every  intention  of  being  serious,"  I 
answered,  with  tones  dry  and  hard.  "  I  am  so 
attached  to  Mrs.  Dorian  that  the  thought  of  her 
death  brings  me  pain." 

"  Of  course  .  .  yes  .  .  naturally." 

I  could  have  struck  him  for  the  latent  sneer  in 
this  interruption ;  but  I  continued,  without  seem 
ing  to  notice  it. 

"  And  in  regard  to  her  provision  for  my  future, 
I  had  imagined,  Mr.  Dorian,  that  you  were  already 
informed  on  that  point  nearly  as  well  as  myself, 
since  you  must  have  known  that  from  childhood 
I  have  been  the  protege  of  your  aunt." 

He  straightened  himself  a  little  at  this.  He 
slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders  while  doing  so. 
"  You  will  pardon  me,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  pos 
sess  very  little  information  on  the  subject." 

I  bit  my  lip.  "  Your  father  was  made  fully 
aware  of  the  facts  in  the  case,"  I  said. 

He  smiled  now,  and  there  was  something  in  the 
smile  that  sent  a  thrill  through  my  nerves.  It 
was  like  a  light  cast  on  steel.  "  Ah  .  .  yes  .  . 
the  facts  in  the  case,"  he  murmured.  "  They  were 
given,  I  recollect." 

Just  then  two  of  our  recent  companions  came 


206  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

out  upon  the  balcony.  Foulke  Dorian  at  once 
addressed  them  in  a  playfully  genial  manner  on 
some  subject  with  which  I  had  no  concern.  I 
retired,  soon  afterward  joining  the  ladies.  Ada 
Gramercey  was  unusually  gracious  that  evening. 
We  made  an  appointment  to  ride  together  on  the 
following  afternoon.  She  rode  admirably,  but 
as  a  rule  with  no  one  except  either  her  father  or 
a  groom  as  escort.  It  was  held  an  honor  for  any 
male  friend  to  be  permitted  the  chance  of  accom 
panying  her.  But  my  pleasure  at  the  prospect 
of  to-morrow  was  diminished  by  hearing  her  soon 
afterward  say :  "  We  shall  start  for  Austria  next 
Wednesday.  It  was  decided  only  a  few  hours 
ago.  Papa's  health  is  not  of  the  best  just  now 
and  he  needs  the  change.  Besides  I  have  never 
seen  the  Tyrol."  I  felt  my  heart  sink.  I  believe 
that  I  realized  my  love  for  her  in  that  one  mo 
ment  more  forcibly  than  ever  before.  "  And 
shall  you  be  gone  till  the  end  of  summer?"  I 
inquired. 

"Yes." 

"  And  then  ?  "  I  still  asked. 

She  laughed,  calling  to  a  little  pet  dog,  agile 
and  beribboned,  that  had  just  scampered  into  the 
room.  "  Oh,  then  we  shall  go  straight  back  home 
to  America." 

I  could  not  repress  the  words  that  now  rose  to 
my  lips.  "And  Mr.  Dorian  will  probably  go  back 
in  the  same  steamer." 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  207 

She  looked  at  me  with  haughty  surprise.  "  He 
is  at  liberty  to  select  that  one  if  he  chooses." 

But  I  was  not  rebuffed.  "He  will  select  it,"  I 
said,  very  softly,  and  no  doubt  reproachfully. 
"  Perhaps  he  will  follow  you  to  the  Tyrol  as 
well." 

She  turned  to  me  a  face  that  was  more  clement 
than  I  had  expected  ;  it  seemed  to  pardon  while 
it  disapproved  my  boldness.  "  He  will  not  follow 
me,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  may  I  ?  " 

"No." 

"You  do  not  put  it  very  forbiddingly,"  I 
pleaded. 

" But  it  is  'No,'  all  the  same.  I  shall  have  papa 
to  look  after.  And  then  people  are  always  saying 
stupid  things." 

"  Well,  let  them  say  what  they  please.  They 
already  say  that  Foulke  Dorian  is  devotedly  fond 
of  you.  I  should  not  at  all  object  to  their  making 
the  same  disclosures  with  regard  to  myself.  The 
truth  is  not  always  unpleasant  to  hear." 

She  gave  a  slight  demure  nod,  and  touched  the 
petals  of  some  roses  which  she  wore  at  her  breast, 
and  which  I  had  sent  her  that  afternoon.  "  You 
are  very  kind,"  she  said,  using  the  conventionality 
of  phrase  because  it  suited  her  coy,  random 
whim.  "  But  papa  and  I  have  made  up  our  minds 
to  take  the  Austrian  trip  alone." 

"I  wish  you  would  answer  me  one  plain,  fair 


208  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

question,"  I  said,  while  my  heart  beat  a  little  at 
my  own  audacity. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  amiably  low- voiced. 

"  Do  you  care  for  Foulke  Dorian  ?  " 

She  set  her  lips  together  somewhat  primly,  but 
in  a  way  that  was  infinitely  becoming.  In  those 
days  of  brilliant  success,  with  not  a  cloud  on  the 
sky  of  her  complete  happiness,  with  admirers  by 
scores,  with  a  worshipping  father  who  indulged  her 
least  whim,  with  wealth,  beauty,  homage,  health, 
flattery  as  the  very  air  that  she  breathed,  was  it 
strange  that  even  she,  possessing  an  intellect  far 
above  that  which  one  finds  in  the  average  feminine 
recipient  of  ordinary  compliment,  should  employ 
her  arts,  her  touches  of  coquetry,  her.  delicate 
minauderies  ? 

"  I  care  for  all  my  fellow-creatures  —  or  try  to 
do  so,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Dorian  is  one  of  them." 

"I  congratulate  you  on  your  elastic  philan 
thropy,"  I  returned,  with  bitterness.  "  Mine  does 
not  extend  so  far." 

Our  conversation  was  now  interrupted  by  one 
or  two  departing  guests.  I  took  my  leave  soon 
afterward,  full  of  disquietude,  perplexity,  distress. 
Foulke  Dorian  was  not  only  my  possible  enemy 
but  my  evident  rival  as  well.  Like  all  men  in 
love,  I  argued  from  Miss  Gramercey's  recent 
evasive  answer  that  she  set  his  devotion  above  my 
own,  and  that  his  ultimate  conquest  was  imminent. 
But  apart  from  this  trouble,  I  was  assailed  by 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  209 

another.  Dorian's  ill-hid  impertinence  rankled 
in  my  breast.  What  had  he  meant  by  those 
drawled  questions,  those  ambiguous  references? 
While  I  was  being  driven  homeward  I  scouted  as 
absurd  the  idea  that  he  could  have  made  any 
real  search  after  the  truth.  That  I  had  been  born 
years  ago  in  Brussels  of  parents  whose  name  was 
Claud,  could  not  by  any  possibility  of  search  have 
resulted  in  his  power  of  denial.  It  surpassed 
rational  credence  that  he  should  have  the  shadow 
of  a  fact  wherewith  to  equip  himself  against  me. 
No,  I  convinced  myself,  his  hatred  (if  hatred  it 
could  be  called)  was  due  solely  to  his  fear  lest  I 
might  win  the  woman  of  his  choice. 

Before  retiring  that  night,  I  knocked  as  usual 
at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Dorian's  sitting-room.  My 
guardian  was  there  alone ;  Casimir,  who  kept 
fairly  early  hours,  had  already  gone  to  rest.  I 
seated  myself  at  Mrs.  Dorian's  side,  and  narrated 
just  what  had  passed  between  her  nephew  and 
myself.  She  slowly  nodded  while  she  listened, 
and  at  length,  when  I  had  finished,  she  said : 

"  His  father  has  set  him  up  to  it.  Depend  upon 
what  I  tell  }TOU,  Otho.  He  has  inherited  the  old 
grudge.  Bah  !  as  if  I  would  swell  their  millions 
by  leaving  them  more  money  !  He  will  probably 
come  to  me,  now ;  if  he  staid  away  it  would  look 
like  open  warfare,  and  that  is  what  he  wishes  to 
avoid.  Dame,  when  he  does  come  I  will  show 
him  what  respect  is  due  us  both." 


210  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  say  nothing  of  any  slight 
to  me,"  I  broke  in.  "  You  must  indeed  promise 
me  that  you  will  keep  wholly  silent  there.  I  have 
no  wish  that  Foulke  Dorian  should  exult  in  having 
inflicted  upon  me  the  least  uneasiness.  If  he  is 
ever  really  insulting  I  assure  you  that  I  shall 
resent  it/' 

"  As  }*ou  please,  Otho,"  said  my  guardian.  "  I 
shall  doubtless  have  my  hands  full,  fighting  my 
own  battle.  If  he  attempts  the  collet  mont£  style 
with  me,  I  shall  very  soon  give  him  a  taste  of  my 
temper.  It  is  too  preposterous  !  These  Dorians 
were  plain  weavers  a  few  years  ago.  New- York 
doesn't  often  draw  a  social  line  anywhere,  but  it 
drew  one  at  them,  with  their  lack  of  grammar, 
their  primeval  manners  and  their  vulgar  house 
in  East  Broadway.  How  well  I  remember  that 
house,  with  shades  at  every  window,  where  a  swan 
was  floating  on  a  lake  at  the  foot  of  a  marble 
staircase.  Ah,  the  great  Balzac  would  have  loved 
those  shades;  he  would  have  told  you  just  how 
many  feathers  there  were  in  each  swan.  And  by 
the  way,  there  were  not  any ;  they  were  mere 
white  daubs.  I  sent  them  flying,  those  swans, 
when  I  married  Monsieur  Steven's  brother.  All 
the  old  French  people  welcomed  me  as  soon  as 
I  went  over.  There  were  some  very  charming 
French  residents  in  New- York  at  that  time  —  no 
doubt  they  are  there  still.  They  knew  very  well 
who  the  De  Lilies  were  ;  my  marriage  simply  made 


TtlE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  211 

the  whole  Dorian  family ;  from  that  time  ever 
since  they  have  assumed  airs." 

"  How  then,"  I  asked,  "  do  you  account  for 
Foulke  having  shown  you  the  disrespect  of  never 
having  visited  you  while  here  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dorian  tossed  upon  the  lamplit  table  at 
her  side  the  French  novel  which  she  had  been 
reading  when  I  entered.  "  All  the  hard  things 
that  are  said  about  one's  self  manage  to  reach  one 
somehow,"  she  exclaimed  —  "  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
as  the  English  say.  I  was  talking  with  that  little 
gossip  of  an  American,  the  other  day,  Mrs.  Merri- 
mac.  You  have  met  her  —  you  told  me.  Her 
husband  knows  Monsieur  Steven,  the  father  of 
Foulke.  It  turns  out  that  this  estimable  old 
gentleman  —  he  is  now  old  and  a  confirmed  invalid, 
I  believe  —  considers  that  I  have  behaved  shock 
ingly  in  having  adopted  a  boy  who  was  no  kin  to 
me.  He  growls  about  it  quite  eloquently  among 
a  few  of  his  intimates.  He  thinks  it  a  wrong  to 
his  own  son,  Foulke,  as  the  money  which  I  possess 
originally  belonged  to  his  brother." 

"  This  throws  a  new  light  upon  Foulke's  con 
duct,"  I  said.  "  But  did  you  not  tell  me, 
madame,"  I  added,  "  that  Mr.  Steven  Dorian  was 
himself  very  rich  ?  " 

"  He  has  millions.  He  is  now  one  of  the  great 
New- York  capitalists.  He  was  always  economical, 
to  express  it  charitably.  But  of  late  years  he  has 
become  notoriously  avaricious.  To  Foulke  he 


212  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

allows  carte  blanche  in  everything,  but  to  him 
alone.  He  covets  my  fortune  —  every  sou  of  it  — 
for  his  son.  Ah,  it  is  not  new,  this  sort  of  disease  ; 
it  is  one  of  nature's  subtle  revenges.  The  man 
who  fails  to  do  more  than  just  keep  body  and  soul 
together  is  often  happier  than  he  who  crowds  his 
bank-vaults  with  specie.  All  that  unused  gold 
reaches  out  a  thin  yellow  hand  and  clutches  him. 
Before  he  knows  it  he  is  a  miser.  And  there  is  no 
more  biting  kind  of  poverty  than  that.  Monsieur 
Steven,  they  tell  me,  has  the  malady  in  its  most 
raging  form.  If  I  go  to  America  with  you  and 
Casimir  in  September  it  will  be  something  to  see 
in  that  dreary  country.  I  have  never  met  a  real 
miser ;  it  will  be  very  interesting  to  watch  Steven ; 
it  will  give  me  one  of  my  impressions.  I  think  I 
will  say  this  to  Foulke  if  he  visits  me  and  attempts 
to  show  any  of  his  condescending  grandeur.  By 
the  way,  I  hope  he  will  come ;  I  am  bristling  for 
an  interview." 

"  That  is  very  evident,"  I  smiled. 

On  the  following  day  Foulke  Dorian  did  come. 
His  visit  was  paid  in  the  afternoon,  at  the  very 
time  when  Ada  Gramercey  and  I  were  taking  our 
ride  together.  I  shall  never  forget  that  ride.  As 
we  returned  homeward  through  the  breezy  twi 
light  between  the  lovely  bordering  boughs  of  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne,  we  let  our  horses  slacken  their 
speed  to  a  walk.  A  delicious  turfy  smell  exhaled 
from  the  woodland  all  about  us,  balmy  residue  of 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  213 

a  shower  which  had  fallen  in  torrents  that  morn 
ing  and  then  left  the  sky  richly  blue.  Seated 
there  at  my  side  on  her  glossy  thoroughbred,  clad 
in  her  dark,  trim  habit,  with  her  pure,  chiselled 
face  rosily  tinged  by  recent  exercise,  and  the  abun 
dant  auburn  hair  peeping  in  one  thick  knot  below 
her  hat  rim,  she  made  a  figure  irresistibly  patri 
cian. 

"  I  should  like  to  ride  on  like  this  forever,"  I 
said.  And  then,  because  the  words  struck  me  as 
commonplace  and  precisely  like  what  every  lover 
in  every  novel  I  had  read  is  sure  to  say  under  sim 
ilar  circumstances,  I  gave  a  most  prosaic  little  laugh 
and  continued :  "  But  I  should  like  to  do  more,  Miss 
Gramercey  —  something  equally  impossible,  too." 

"  What  more  ? "  she  asked,  stooping  down  to 
pat  the  neck  of  her  beautiful  horse,  in  whose  thin 
skin,  moist  from  his  galloping,  the  large  swollen 
veins  were  visible. 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  to  sweep  Austria  from  the 
face  of  the  globe." 

"  How  unkind  to  poor  papa  !  " 

"  I  should  dislike  being  unkind  to  your  father, 
of  all  people.  All  people  but  one  — yourself." 

Her  hazel  eyes  were  full  of  a  smiling  roguery  as 
she  turned  them  on  mine.  "  Then  you  should  not 
object  to  my  seeing  those  delightful  mountains," 
she  said  softl}r. 

I  leaned  much  closer  to  her;  our  horses'  necks 
almost  grazed  one  another ;  I  could  have  touched 


214  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

her  hand  so  easily,  where  it  lay  in  its  drab  gaunt 
let,  idly  holding  the  reins  ! 

"I  object  to  losing  you  —  that  is  all.  I  want 
always  to  have  you  near  me.  I  love  you.  You 
are  every  thing  on  earth  to  me.  I  wish  with  all 
my  soul  that  you  would  let  me  one  day  call  you 
my  wife." 

She  averted  her  face,  but  I  could  see  the  color 
fade  from  it.  In  the  peace  of  the  sweet,  damp 
woods  where  we  rode  I  heard  the  hoofs  of  the 
horses  fall  solid  on  the  yielding  soil.  She  kept 
silent,  while  my  heart  beat  with  hope  and  with 
despair  equally.  It  seemed  an  age  until  she 
said : 

"  I  have  not  thought  of  marriage  .  .  yet.  I 
have  often  told  myself  that  I  would  never  marry 
while  papa  lives." 

"  And  you  will  not  alter  this  resolve  now  ?  " 

She  slowly  shook  her  head.  "  He  needs  my 
companionship  more  than  you  know." 

"  If  you  were  my  wife  he  could  still  possess  it." 

She  quickened  her  horse's  pace  a  little.  "  It  is 
growing  late,"  she  said.  The  words  sounded 
almost  like  a  jeer  to  me.  My  thoughts  had  flown 
to  Foulke  Dorian. 

"Will  you  give  me  no  answer  but  that?"  I 
appealed,  in  a  tone  more  demanding  and  ungentle 
than  I  was  perhaps  aware  of. 

Her  own  pride  of  manner  came  back  to  her  in 
an  instant.  "  You  are  exacting,"  she  said,  letting 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  215 

me  see  her  full  face  once  more,  lifted  rather 
haughtily  above  her  slender  white  throat. 

"  And  you  are  wilfully  cruel,"  I  returned,  with 
unrepressed  heat.  "  Either  you  wish  to  play  with 
and  torment  me,  or  you  care  for  someone  else 
better.  Which  is  it  ?  I  have  the  right  to  know." 

"  I  do  not  perceive  your  right,"  she  said  chil 
lingly.  "  It  exists  only  in  your  imagination,  Mr. 
Claud." 

"  You  do  care  for  him,"  I  exclaimed  with  bitter 
ness.  "  I  mean  Foulke  Dorian.  And  you  will 
not  tell  me  so  — I  think  because  you  are  ashamed." 

"  Ashamed  ? "  she  repeated,  with  a  scornful 
surprise. 

"  Yes.  He  is  such  an  empty,  arrogant,  self-suf 
ficient  creature,  totally  unworthy  of  you  in  every 
way.  It  is  monstrous  that  you  should  love  him. 
Ah,  he  has  gone  more  adroitly  to  work  than  I, 
however !  He  has  deluged  you  with  adoration  for 
months !  Flattery  is  what  you  prize,  and  he  has 
given  you  plenty  of  it.  When  I  next  meet  him, 
have  I  your  permission  to  congratulate  him  ?  " 

She  looked  at  me  with  flashing  eyes  and  a  curled 
lip.  Then  she  smote  her  horse  once,  sharply,  and 
made  him  break  into  a  canter.  I  did  the  same 
with  mine.  A  few  minutes  later  I  had  repented 
of  my  tirade.  She  kept  her  face  away  from  mine 
throughout  the  rest  of  the  ride,  which  she  managed, 
with  the  increasing  speed  of  her  horse,  to  make 
almost  as  brief  as  possible.  She  reached  the  inner 


216  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

court  of  her  own  dwelling  at  a  swift  gallop.  A 
groom  came  forward  and  assisted  her  to  alight. 
But  I  wheeled  my  horse  so  that  he  barred  her 
progress  indoors,  and  stooping  downward  I  said, 
looking  her  straight  in  the  eyes : 

"Forgive  me  —  do  say  that  you  forgive  me! 
My  sole  excuse  is  that  I  love  you.  Pity  me  and 
be  kind !  " 

She  stood  there  in  the  early  summer  twilight, 
with  her  skirts  gathered  about  her  pliant  figure, 
a  picture  of  enchanting  maidenhood. 

"  You  were  very  rude  —  unwarrantably  so,"  she 
said.  And  then  she  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  pass 
within  the  house.  I  stretched  my  hand  down 
ward.  "  But  you  will  pardon  me,"  I  whispered. 
She  did  not  take  my  hand.  A  smile  of  irony 
crossed  her  face.  "Is  this  your  mode  of  flat 
tery  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Well,  you  shall  see  how  little 
I  prize  it."  She  at  once  swerved  aside  from  me 
and  passed  hurriedly  into  the  house. 

I  rode  away  full  of  misery  and  indignation.  On 
reaching  home  I  went  up  into  Casimir's  new 
studio,  a  large,  airy  room,  hung  with  some  fine  old 
tapestries  which  we  had  purchased  not  many  days 
ago  together.  I  found  Casimir  seated  at  his  easel, 
no  longer  painting  but  regarding  his  canvas  by 
the  dreamy  li^ht  which  streamed  in  from  a  broad 

•/          o 

adjacent  window.  He  gave  me  the  smile  of  wel 
come  that  so  few  others  could  ever  win  from  him, 
and  at  once  asked  me  concerning  my  ride,  which 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  217 

he  knew  I  was  to  take  with  Ada  Gramercy  that 
afternoon. 

"  Oh,  it  has  made  me  wretched,"  I  told  him, 
sinking  into  a  chair  at  his  side.  Instantly  his 
hand,  soft  and  white  as  a  woman's,  stole  into  mine. 
"  Otho !  "  he  exclaimed,  "you  love  her  —  I  guessed 
it  a  week  ago.  But  she  cannot  have  refused  you ! " 

His  admiration  of  me  was  so  profound  and  loyal 
that  such  an  event  appeared  to  him  incredible. 

"  It  is  almost  as  bad  as  a  refusal,"  I  said  gloom 
ily.  "Perhaps  it  is  even  worse."  And  then  I 
told  him  just  what  had  occurred,  sparing  myself 
in  no  detail  of  the  narration.  "  No  doubt,"  I  fin 
ished,  "you  will  assert  that  I  am  dreadfully  to 
blame." 

"  No,"  he  declared,  the  affection  that  he  felt  for 
me  blinding  him  with  speed  to  my  fault.  "  You 
spoke  a  little  hastily  toward  the  last,  but  you  had 
asked  her  to  be  your  wife.  You  had  paid  her  that 
honor.  She  should  have  remembered  it  and  valued 
it.  If  she  really  cared  for  someone  else  more  than 
you  "  (and  my  friend  pronounced  these  words  as 
though  he  were  touching  upon  some  remote  chance) 
"  then  she  would  have  made  her  position  plain  at 
once.  To  tell  you  that  you  were  exacting  because 
you  wanted  a  simple  answer  to  so  grave  a  question 
— peste  !  it  was  atrocious !  To  you,  Otho,  it  was 
insolent ! " 

"  Ah,  Casimir,"  I  said,  "  I  am  afraid  you  side 
too  warmly  with  your  friend.  You  treat  the  case 


218  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

as  if  I  had  been  a  royal  prince  proposing  to  some 
lady  of  inferior  quality." 

"She  is  a  queen  in  her  way  —  be  assured  of 
that,"  said  Casimir,  with  his  voice  full  of  sym 
pathy  and  disapprobation  combined.  "A  queen 
of  coquetry  and  vanity,  who  delights  in  having 
such  men  as  you  are  sue  to  her,  that  she  may 
afterward  boast  and  exult." 

"No,  no,"  I  replied.  "If  I  thought  that  it 
would  not  be  so  hard  to  forget  her.  But  I  must 
believe  otherwise.  I  must  believe  that  she  has 
treated  me  thus  because  of  Foulke  Dorian  only. 
He  is  a  man  of  no  charm,  no  intellect,  wit,  amia 
bility.  Even  his  adherents  (and  he  has  a  few  in 
Paris  whom  his  great  reputed  wealth  attracts) 
have  more  than  once  admitted  this.  But  months 
ago  he  began  his  suit,  and  has  pushed  it  with 
dogged  perseverance  ever  since.  It  is  that  de 
termined,  unremitting  courtship  which  is  nearly 
always  sure  of  conquest  in  the  end." 

"And  if  she  prefers  such  a  man  to  you,"  ex 
claimed  Casimir,  rising  and  throwing  an  arm 
about  my  neck,  "  then  she  is  not  worthy  of  wast 
ing  another  thought  upon." 

This  truly  passionate  partisan  made  by  no  means 
the  best  of  counsellors.  I  do  not  think  that  just 
then  I  could  have  had  a  worse  than  Casimir. 
Egotism  is  such  an  easy  pitfall,  and  when  we  are 
anxious  for  the  doleful  comfort  of  convincing  our 
selves  that  we  have  been  wronged,  admiring  assur- 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  219 

ances  of  it  carry  danger  in  their  delivery.  Already 
Foulke  Dorian  had  become  odious  to  me ;  his 
reception  of  my  overtures  on  the  balcony  had 
certainly  pushed  this  result,  though  it  was  fated 
to  occur  after  my  unhappy  interview  with  Ada 
Gramercey. 

And  yet  now,  at  this  very  point  in  my  life,  I 
owe  to  myself  the  statement  that  I  struggled 
against  nursing  and  brooding  upon  my  hatred. 
I  recalled  the  past.  How  fearful  is  the  signifi 
cance  of  those  words  no  one  can  here  dispute.  I 
strove  to  set  before  my  vision  in  unflinching  lines 
the  fact  of  my  proven  fallibility.  If  the  devil 
were  really  in  my  blood,  let  the  devil  be  cast  out. 
If  Dorian  did  not  accompany  the  Gramerceys  to 
Austria  —  and  I  had  been  assured  that  he  would 
not  do  so  —  why  should  not  Casimir  and  I  take  a 
trip  to  Holland  or  northern  Germany  until  the 
time  came  for  the  American  voyage  ?  In  this 
way  I  could  avoid  all  meeting  with  the  man  I 
detested,  provided  he  should  remain  in  Paris 
throughout  that  intervening  time ;  and  if  he 
should  depart  for  any  other  portion  of  Europe 
I  would  thus  run  but  slight  risk  of  encountering 
him.  My  guardian  had  a  dinner  engagement  that 
evening,  and  Casimir  and  myself  dined  together 
at  a  favorite  cafe".  During  our  repast  I  made  to 
him  the  proposal  of  this  plan,  which  had  been 
forming  in  my  mind  by  a  half-unconscious  process. 
He  accepted  it  without  demur. 


220  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

The  prospect  of  escape  gave  me  a  dismal  pleas 
ure.  It  was  torment  to  think  of  Ada  Gramercey 
leaving  Paris  with  our  quarrel  still  unhealed,  but 
I  had  not  only  the  pangs  of  love  to  fight  against 

—  I  must  also  struggle  with  those  of  a  darker 
sort.     Foulke  Dorian's  very  name  had  become  an 
abomination  to  me.     I  realized  what  that  meant 

—  or  rather  I  trembled  with  a  sort  of  dumb  horror 
at  what  it  might  mean.     Leagues  of  social  and 
educational  difference  lay  between   me  and  the 
rough,  turbid-souled   peasant  whom    I   had   seen 
vilely  strike  my  mother  down  and  stain  me  with 
her  innocent  blood.     Still,  I  was  his  son.     I  had 
already  had  reasons  to  recall  it.     I  dared  not  for 
get  it. 

When  Mrs.  Dorian  returned  at  about  eleven 
o'clock,  that  evening,  I  heard  her  quick  step  in 
the  corridor  outside  my  own  suite  of  apartments 
and  went  to  join  her  at  once.  I  had  previously 
learned  from  one  of  the  servants  that  Foulke 
had  visited  her  during  the  afternoon. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  came,"  she  said,  setting  a  brilliant 
bouquet  of  roses  that  she  held  upon  the  mantel 
and  throwing  off  a  gossamer  gold-threaded  shawl 
upon  the  back  of  a  chair.  Then  she  dropped  into 
the  chair  and  began  pulling  off  her  long,  modish 
gloves.  In  her  festal  dress  of  bright  tints,  with 
her  jewels  and  her  corsage  of  flowers,  and  her 
hair,  that  age  had  not  yet  markedly  tinted,  worn 
quite  elaborately,  she  looked  like  one  of  those 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  221 

gay,  fashionable,  self-poised,  worldly  wise  and 
time-defying  Frenchwomen  out  of  the  pages  of 
her  own  beloved  Balzac.  A  lamp,  in  a  rosy  shade, 
stood  near  her  on  a  table  draped  with  a  rich  em 
broidered  cloth.  All  the  rest  of  the  room  was  in 
shadow  save  that  portion  where  she  sat.  It  was 
like  a  picture  by  some  deft  ^retire-painter  among 
her  own  clever  countrymen  —  the  artists  whom 
Casimir  held  in  disgust  as  grossly  unspiritual. 
Mrs.  Dorian  did  not  appear  at  all  spiritual ;  she 
was  clearly  the  reverse,  but  by  no  means  grossly. 
And  the  crisp,  fleet  words  that  she  now  spoke, 
broken  with  little  scraps  of  low,  guttural  laughter, 
did  not  in  any  degree  interfere  with  the  ensemble. 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  dear  Otho,"  she  continued,  tug 
ging  at  her  gloves,  "  he  came,  he  saw,  but  unlike 
Caesar,  he  did  not  conquer.  Oh,  I  was  quite  pre 
pared  for  him,  I  assure  you.  He  was  bien  gante  ; 
he  was  bien  chausse  ;  he  was  elegant-looking  and 
aristocratic  in  the  extreme.  I  could  scarcely  real 
ize  that  he  was  a  Dorian ;  I  put  up  my  glasses 
and  began  searching  for  some  vague  sign  of  those 
multitudinous  freckles ;  it  seemed  impossible  that 
they  had  all  vanished.  But  like  the  swans  from 
the  windows  of  his  uncle's  hideous  house  in  East 
Broadway,  they  had  positively  flown.  It  is  mar- 
vello'is  what  one  generation  will  do.  Foulke  is 
really  a  gentleman.  I  believe  that  I  presently 
told  him  so  —  or  something  rather  like  it." 

"A  somewhat  belligerent  way  of  opening  the 


222  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

conversation,"  I  said.  "  You  must  have  received 
him  with  a  rattle  of  musketry." 

"  He  stood  fire  very  well.  I  began  by  asking 
after  several  branches  of  the  family  which  I  was 
sure  he  felt  ashamed  of.  His  father  and  uncle 
felt  ashamed  of  them  years  ago,  so  what  might 
not  one  expect  from  him  ?  I  inquired  concerning 
the  health  of  Mrs.  Judkins  and  Mr.  Bigsbee  and 
Mrs.  Crump.  Very  unaristocratic  names,  are  they 
not?  By  no  means  so  graceful  and  smooth  as 
Dorian.  But  they  belonged  to  people  who  are 
or  were  the  near  kindred  of  Foulke.  He  knew 
nothing  about  them,  however.  At  this  I  took 
occasion  to  be  vastly  astonished.  Mon  Dieuf  not 
to  know  one's  own  relations !  It  was  horrible  ! 
Ah,  his  papa  had  doubtless  brought  him  up  in  this 
way.  And  poor  Mrs.  Crump  !  To  forget  her  — 
the  sister  of  Monsieur  Steven's  own  mother !  She 
had  kept  a  millinery-shop  in  Division  Street ;  I 
had  bought  one  or  two  bonnets  there  m}Tself,  out 
of  sheer  good  nature.  .  .  And  from  this  sort,  of 
prickly  reminiscence,  my  dear  Otho,  it  was  an 
easy  digression  to  the  reports  which  I  had  heard 
concerning  his  papa's  extraordinary  avarice." 

"  No  doubt  you  found  it  so,  madame,"  I  said, 
smiling.  "  How  Mr.  Dorian  must  have  enjoyed 
his  visit !  Pray,  did  he  leave  in  a  fury  ?  " 

"No.  It  was  a  kind  of  white  heat.  I  don't 
believe  he  will  ever  come  again,  and  I  am  sure  I 
don't  care.  lie  deserves  all  that  I  gave  him,  for 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  223 

ignoring  my  presence  in  Paris.  And  then  to  think 
of  their  showing  any  resentment,  he  and  his  father, 
as  to  how  I  may  leave  my  own  money  ! " 

"  You  referred  to  this  ! "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Assurgment.  Why  not  ?  I  had  heard  it.  If 
it  was  false  he  could  refute  it.  But  he  did  not. 
He  saw  very  well  that  I  knew  how  true  it  was." 

"  There  was  nothing  said  regarding  myself?"  I 
inquired. 

"I  mentioned  your  name  once  or  twice,  quite 
carelessly.  And  I  noticed  that  each  time  I  did  so 
his  lips  tightened  and  his  eyes  sent  me  a  slant, 
odd  look  from  under  their  drooped  lids.  He  has 
such  extraordinary  eyelids,  by  the  way.  They 
gave  me  quite  an  impression ;  they  remind  me  of 
window  shades  that  have  become  loose  on  their 
rollers.  And  do  you  not  think  his  smile  remark 
ably  acid  and  his  eyes  remarkably  dull  and  cold, 
Otho?" 

"  Remarkably,"  I  said. 


224  TlIE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 


X. 


PARIS  had  now  grown  exceedingly  hot.  There 
had  been  a  faint  rumor  of  cholera,  too,  that  }rear, 
which  combined  with  the  heat  in  sending  droves 
of  people  out  of  town.  I  had  hoped  against  hope 
for  some  message  from  Ada  Gramercey  before  she 
left  with  her  father.  None  came,  and  I  at  length 
learned  that  they  had  taken  their  departure. 
Soon  afterward  I  began  my  preparations  for  start 
ing  with  Casimir.  Mrs.  Dorian  did  not  at  all 
object  to  remaining  behind.  She  declared  that 
even  when  deserted  Paris  was  agreeable  to  her 
and  that  she  needed  repose  in  order  to  collect  her 
energies  for  the  unpalatable  American  journey. 

Once  or  twice  in  the  club  of  which  I  had  become 
a  member  I  saw  Foulke  Dorian.  We  exchanged, 
on  these  occasions,  a  cool  and  distant  nod.  His 
presence  there  brought  me  some  comfort,  at  least. 
He  had  not  followed  the  Gramerceys  to  Austria,  and 
very  possibly  he  had  been  forbidden  from  doing  so. 

But  I  was  fated  soon  to  meet  him  in  a  very 
different  way.  It  had  never  occurred  to  me  that 
Casimir's  existence  and  change  of  fortune  might 
both  have  reached  his  knowledge.  I  had  given 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  225 

no  thought  to  the  question  of  whether  these  facts, 
once  disclosed,  would  interest  him  or  not.  Mrs. 
Dorian  had  openly  told  her  friends  that  Casimir 
and  I  were  now  her  co-heirs ;  perhaps  she  may 
even  have  mentioned  the  subject  to  Foulke  when 
he  had  visited  her.  The  studio  of  my  friend, 
although  translated  to  the  same  house  in  which 
we  all  three  dwelt,  was  frequently  the  resort  of  a 
few  fellow-artists,  and  in  a  manner  separated  from 
our  lower  apartments.  The  concierge  had  indeed 
grown  to  regard  it  as  a  special  abode  by  itself,  and 
those  whom  its  young  proprietor  received  there 
or  those  whom  he  did  not  had  become  a  matter  of 
entirely  his  own  concern.  He  was  still  by  no 
means  above  selling  his  pictures,  and  the  altered 
conditions  of  his  life  had  attracted  purchasers  who 
had  never  before  paid  heed  to  his  work,  but  who 
now  regarded  it  with  new  eyes,  as  gilded  by  the 
halo  of  an  assured  prosperity.  The  moment  we 
rid  genius  of  the  necessity  to  strive,  it  is  surpris 
ing  how  swift  a  turn  takes  place  in  the  tide  of 
appreciation. 

One  afternoon,  having  returned  from  a  ride,  I 
went  up  into  the  studio,  expecting  to  find  Casimir 
busy  there.  But  he  was  absent.  I  had  dismounted 
hastily  in  the  court  below ;  I  still  held  my  riding- 
whip,  and  stood  carelessly  striking  it  against  one 
limb  and  gazing  out  of  the  great  north  window, 
which  commanded  a  fine  view  of  certain  buildings 
and  localities,  for  a  longer  time  than  I  was  per- 


226  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

haps  aware.  Any  coup  d'ceil  of  Paris  always  fas 
cinated  me  ;  it  reminded  me  of  a  sleeping  tigress  ; 
you  never  know  at  what  moment  she  may  not 
wake  and  stretch  out  a  murderous  claw. 

Suddenly  a  knock  at  the  door  roused  me.  I 
quickly  crossed  the  room,  opened  the  door,  and 
found  myself  face  to  face  with  Foulke  Dorian. 

My  surprise  was  intense.  I  saw  him  start,  and 
then  control  himself.  He  advanced  across  the 
threshold  ;  he  held  in  his  hand  something  that 
looked  like  a  letter,  and  which  I  afterward  per 
ceived  to  be  unsealed.  His  embarrassment  was  at 
once  evident  as  he  began  to  address  me  in  con 
fused,  almost  haphazard  words. 

"I  —  I  beg  pardon.  I  wished  to  see  —  I  had 
been  told  —  I  have  a  note  of  introduction  to  — 
yes,  to  Monsieur  Casimir  Laprade." 

"  This  is  his  studio,"  I  said.  "  But  he  is  not 
here  at  present." 

"  Ah  .  .  yes  .  .  thanks,"  was  the  reply.  For 
a  moment  he  seemed  about  to  retire  from  the 
chamber.  Then  he  put  up  an  eye-glass  and 
glanced  about  him  at  the  quaint,  decorative  sur 
roundings. 

"  A  very  pretty  room,"  he  soon  proceeded,  his 
customary  drawl  returning  to  him  with  renewed 
self-possession.  He  now  directed  his  gaze  upon 
myself,  letting  the  glass  drop  on  its  thin  silken 
cord.  "  Do  you  think  that  Monsieur  Laprade  will 
be  away  all  the  afternoon  ?  " 


TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  227 

"  Most  probably  not,"  I  answered.  "  Do  you 
care  to  wait  until  his  return  ?  "  I  wheeled  a  soft- 
rolling  cushioned  chair  two  or  three  paces  toward 
him  as  I  spoke.  It  cost  me  something  to  show 
this  courtesy,  but  I  performed  it  with  steeled 
nerves. 

"  You're  very  good,"  he  said.  He  looked 
down  into  the  velvety  recess  of  the  chair,  but  he 
did  not  seat  himself.  "I  could  call  again,  of 
course.  What  are  the  gentleman's  usual  hours?" 

"  He  is  generally  here  during  the  morning,"  I 
said.  "But  he  often  paints  until  evening  as 
well." 

"Ah  .  .  yes."  He  had  begun  to  stare  about 
the  room  again,  repeating  the  operation  with  the 
eye-glass  and  letting  it  drop  when  he  re-addressed 
me.  "  The  young  man  is  a  decided  genius,  I  hear. 
Riviere  gave  me  my  note  of  introduction.  Do  you 
know  Riviere  ?  " 

"Not  well.  He  is  a  friend  of  Casimir's,  I 
believe."  I  purposely  called  my  own  friend  by 
his  first  name. 

"He  speaks  with  enthusiasm  of  Monsiur  La- 
prade,"  said  Foulke  Dorian.  The  tone  was  now 
just  tinged,  and  no  more,  with  a  sarcastic  incre 
dulity.  "  It  gave  me  a  curiosity  —  I  mean  a  .  .  er 
.  .  wish  —  to  see  some  of  his  work.  It  is  for  sale, 
I  hear?" 

The  rising  inflection  on  that  last  word  was  con 
descension  itself.  I  bowed  quietly.  "  Monsieur 


228  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

Laprade  sells  his  pictures  now  and  then,"  I  said, 
"  when  the  mood  pleases  him." 

Those  dull  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  my  own, 
now,  with  a  sleepy  steadiness.  "  Ah  .  .  quite  so. 
He  is  not  compelled,  then,  to  paint  for  .  .  er  .  . 
subsistence  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,"  I  replied.  "  His  aunt  (who  is 
also  yours,  Mr.  Dorian)  has  the  warmest  admira 
tion  for  his  talents." 

"  Indeed  !     You  mean  that  she  supports  him  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  she  has  adopted  him  as  her  son," 
I  said,  biting  my  lip. 

"Yes?  Truly?  She  is  a  very  benevolent  per 
son,  that  aunt  of  mine,  is  she  not?  " 

"  She  is  one  of  the  best  and  noblest  women  in 
the  world,"  I  said,  with  a  decision  and  force  of 
speech  that  widely  differed  from  the  loitering 
drawl  I  had  just  heard. 

He  walked  toward  a  canvas  that  hung  not  far 
from  where  he  had  stood  and  peered  closely  at  it, 
as  a  near-sighted  observer  will  do.  After  a  little 
pause  he  said,  still  scanning  the  picture :  "  You 
speak  from  experience,  of  course." 

"  I  do.  From  a  longer  and  deeper  experience  in 
Mrs.  Dorian's  goodness  than  Monsieur  Laprade's." 

He  slowly  turned  and  faced  me  again.  There 
was  an  indescribable  chill,  a  stealthy,  insidious  hos 
tility,  about  this  simple  movement.  It  somehow 
prepared  me  for  some  bit  of  sly,  masked  assault. 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  very  good  of  you  not  to  feel 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  229 

jealous,  Mr.  Claud,"  he  said,  "at  the  arrival  of 
this  new  claimant  for  my  aunt's  favor." 

He  was  busying  himself  with  a  button  of  his 
neat-fitting  gloves  as  I  responded :  "  Casimir  La- 
prade  and  I  are  devoted  friends,  and  I  could  not 
have  more  affection  for  him  if  he  were  my  own 
brother." 

"Really?     That  is  very  fortunate." 

"I  do  not  see  that  it  is  especially  fortunate," 
I  returned,  with  curt  speed,  "except  in  the  sense 
that  disinterested  friendship  is  always  a  precious 
thing." 

He  gave  a  low  laugh.  "  I  .  .  er  .  .  I  was 
not  taking  so  elevated  a  view.  The  affection,  it 
occurred  to  me,  might  be  fortunate  in  other  ways. 
If  Mrs.  Dorian  were  to  die,  for  instance.  There 
would,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  be  a  peaceful  division 
of  the  spoils." 

I  felt  myself  flush  as  I  replied :  "  Your  allusion 
cannot  be  misunderstood ;  it  is  too  uncivilly  mani 
fest." 

He  made  a  dainty,  deprecating  gesture.  "  Un 
civilly,  Mr.  Claud  ?  "  he  murmured. 

"  Precisely  that." 

"But  I  am  never  willingly  uncivil."  He  said 
this  with  an  air  of  offended  hauteur,  but  with  a 
touch  of  satirical  compassion  as  well. 

"If  the  rudeness  were  unintentional,"  I  re 
turned,  "I  find  it  none  the  less  unpleasant.  We 
usually  do  so,  in  these  cases." 


230  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

He  lifted  both  hands,  smiling.  "  Ah,  you  are 
not  to  be  appeased."  Then  he  gave  his  silver- 
tipped  walking-stick  a  jaunty  little  ruminative 
twirl,  watching  it  as  he  did  so.  "  Frankly,  I 
don't  think  I  will  wait  for  Monsieur  Laprade,  as 
I  see  that  you  are  bent  upon  being  quarrelsome. 
Are  you  not  a  little  disposed  in  that  direction? 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  heard  so."  His  smile 
was  very  bright  and  keen  as  he  spoke  these  words ; 
it  made  his  eyes  look  duller. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  have  heard,"  I  said, 
involuntarily  taking  a  step  nearer  to  him.  "I 
must  request  you  to  explain  your  meaning." 

"Ah  .  .  you  bring  me  to  account,  eh?  You 
are  so  fond  of  bringing  people  to  account."  The 
sneer  was  now  perfectly  undisguised. 

I  spoke  very  calmly.  "Innuendoes  are  objec 
tionable  to  me,"  I  said.  "That  is  all.  And  if 
you  choose  to  call  it  bringing  you  to  account,  I 
do  so." 

He  moved  in  his  easy,  well-bred  way  toward  the 
door.  "I  really  have  no  more  to  say.  I  must 
wish  you  good-day,  Mr.  Claud." 

"Pardon  me,"  I  broke  in,  still  tranquil.  "But 
you  have  referred  to  reports  concerning  myself, 
and  you  have  done  this  with  a  contemptuous 
accent  and  bearing  which  I  cannot  permit  to 
pass  unnoticed." 

He  turned  short,  facing  me  again,  and  throw 
ing  back  his  head  a  little.  His  anger  was  now 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  231 

evident,  though  I  had  as  yet  shown  none  what 
ever. 

"Oh,  if  you  want  facts,"  he  retorted,  with  a 
harsh  note  in  his  decorous,  modulated  drawl,  "  I 
can  remind  you  of  your  having  been  rude  to  Miss 
Gramercey." 

•'  You  mention  Miss  Gramercey's  name.  Did 
she  tell  you  that  I  was  rude  to  her?" 

He  twirled  his  stick  again.  "  Her  manner  in 
referring  to  you  told  me  so." 

I  went  straight  up  to  his  side  till  we  stood 
scarcely  three  inches  apart.  No  doubt  I  had 
grown  pale,  and  I  think  my  next  words  were 
somewhat  hoarsely  spoken.  "  I  demand  to  know," 
I  said,  "whether  Miss  Gramercey  told  you  what 
took  place  during  our  last  meeting.'" 

He  receded  from  me.  "And  I  refuse  to  re 
ply,"  he  said,  with  fastidious  disgust  and  a  good 
deal  of  smothered  wrath  as  well.  "  However, 
even  if  she  told  me  nothing  I  could  draw  my 
inferences." 

"  What  inferences  ?  " 

"  That  you  quarrelled  with  her.  You  and  she 
have  not  met  since  you  rode  out  together  on 
Monday  last.  You  made  no  adieus  to  her.  The 
whole  matter  is  quite  apparent.  She  has  been 
very  commode  and  nice  to  you.  Of  course  you 
would  have  gone  there  if  the  former  terms  ex 
isted.  I  have  no  more  to  say.  Good-afternoon." 

He  bowed  slightly  and  slipped   past  me.     As 


232  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

his  hand  touched  the  knob  of  the  closed  door  I 
said,  with  louder  voice  than  I  had  yet  used : 

"  Since  you  are  so  quick  to  read  the  moods  and 
feelings  of  this  lady,  it  is  too  bad  that  you  were 
forbidden  from  accompanying  her.  Your  services 
as  an  interpreter  would  have  been  invaluable." 

I  threw  into  this  speech  a  scathing  irony.  Self- 
control  for  the  moment  left  me.  But  instantly 
afterward  I  regretted  what  I  had  said,  so  fixed 
was  my  purpose  not  to  give  anger  the  least  head 
way. 

His  hand  trembled  a  little  as  it  grasped  the  door 
knob.  Something  like  a  speck  of  flame  seemed 
to  prick  through  the  dulness  of  each  eye.  He 
appeared  irresolute  whether  to  hide  his  rage  by  an 
immediate  exit  or  to  remain  and  give  some  open 
proof  of  it.  At  length,  with  a  flutter  of  the  lips 
that  betrayed  agitation  more  than  his  high-pitched, 
querulous  voice  did,  he  chose  the  latter  course.  - 

"You  are  so  like  my  aunt.  I  am  constantly 
seeing  new  points  of  resemblance  between  your 
self  and  her." 

Not  the  least  hint  of  his  true  meaning  had  yet 
entered  my  mind.  "  It  is  an  honor  to  resemble 
her,"  I  replied.  "You  compliment  me,  Mr.  Do 
rian,  against  your  will." 

"  An  honor !  "  he  exclaimed.  He  lifted  one 
hand  to  his  mouth  as  though  to  repress  an  ex 
plosion  of  mocking  laughter  which  I  could  not 
but  hear  and  see.  "  Excuse  me,  but  the  honor 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  233 

of  such  a  resemblance  might  be  held  somewhat 
questionable." 

I  still  did  not  dream  of  his  true  meaning.  I 
thought  that  he  was  merely  casting  a  slur  upon 
Mrs.  Dorian,  whom  it  was  supposable  that  he 
should  dislike  after  the  reproofs  which  she  had 
lately  administered. 

"  You  may  hold  your  aunt  in  fine  scorn,"  I  said, 
"  but  to  me  she  is  very  dear.  I  love  her  devot 
edly,  and  I  will  not  permit  her  to  be  lightly 
spoken  of." 

"  Yes  .  .  ah  .  .  yes  .  .  I  understand.  You 
regard  her  as  a  son.  A  son  .  .  yes.  It  is  very 
clear  to  me,  naturally." 

For  the  first  time  a  suspicion  of  what  he  meant 
flashed  upon  me.  And  yet  even  as  it  did  so  I 
sought  to  drive  it  back.  The  thing  could  not  be. 
His  nature  was  perhaps  a  mean  one,  and  we  were 
both  in  love  with  the  same  woman.  He  did  not 
like  me  —  perhaps  he  detested  me.  But  a  jibe  that 
would  tip  itself  with  such  acrid  venom!  No, 
impossible!  I  was  wretchedly  in  error;  I  had 
misinterpreted  —  misjudged  —  imagined. 

"  Mrs.  Dorian  has  been  a  second  mother  to  me," 
I  said,  measuring  each  word.  I  do  not  think  there 
was  any  threat  in  my  tones,  or  any  sign  of  what 
thought  had  just  swept  through  my  brain. 

"A  second  mother?"  he  repeated.  "You  for 
get  how  much  }*ou  and  she  look  alike.  Is  it  quite 
certain,  my  very  lofty  and  assuming  friend,  that 


234  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

we  are  not  blood  relations?  No  doubt  you  were 
born  in  Belgium,  after  all,  and  were  kept  there 
discreetly  until  that  eccentric  French  lady,  my 
aunt,  thought  it  safe  to  have  you  appear  in  New- 
York.  Eccentric  French  ladies  sometimes  commit 
imprudences,  you  know,  before  marriage  as  well 
as  after.  I  don't  believe  my  late  uncle  could  ever 
have  been  induced  to  acknowledge  you  as  his  son, 
and  after  his  death  Mrs.  Dorian  would  of  course 
have  found  it  awkward  to  account  for  you  except 
as  she  did.  I  should  say,  for  my  part,  that  the 
whole  affair  had  been  most  cleverly  managed  and 
that"  .  .  . 

Until  now  I  think  he  had  preserved  the  current 
of  this  atrocious  insult  because  my  pallor  and  my 
look  of  horror  may  have  seemed  like  the  conster 
nation  of  discovery  and  affright.  The  effect  of 
these  stabbing  sentences  had  been  to  make  me 
for  a  brief  while  speechless,  even  nerveless.  But 
suddenly  a  great  rush  of  passion  dispelled  all  that. 
I  sprang  toward  him,  and  in  an  instant  our  sepa 
rate  strengths  were  pitted  against  each  other  to 
the  full.  And  mine,  trained  and  nurtured  by 
years  of  healthful  exercise,  far  exceeded  his.  I 
whirled  him  about,  and  forced  him  into  the  chair 
lately  proffered  him.  My  hand,  in  a  tense  clutch, 
was  fixed  upon  his  collar.  I  cannot  be  sure  just 
how  long  my  own  fury  seemed  to  mj'self  uncon 
trollable.  His  first  gasp  for  breath  calmed  it, 
placing  it  within  the  bounds  of  that  resentment 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  235 

which  seeks  to  chastise  rather  than  destroy.  I 
released  him,  but  as  he  feebly  tottered  to  his  feet 
my  eye  fell  upon  the  riding- whip  which  I  had  cast 
only  a  brief  time  since  on  a  near  table.  I  seized 
it,  and  darting  toward  him  as  he  stood  dazed  and 
disarrayed  before  me,  I  rained  upon  his  head  and 
face  a  series  of  merciless  cutting  blows.  He  tried 
to  grapple  with  me  while  I  did  this,  but  I  held 
him  at  arm's  length  with  my  disengaged  hand. 
Then,  the  ignominy  of  my  punishment  complete,  I 
flung  him  from  me  with  violent  force.  He  fell  in  a 
half  supine  posture  against  the  tufted  chair,  but  as  I 
threw  away  the  whip  he  again  struggled  to  his  feet. 
His  face  was  livid,  and  the  lash-strokes  already 
showed  their  marks  upon  it  in  reddish  welts. 

I  folded  my  arms  and  looked  at  him.  "  Take 
your  hat  and  cane  and  go,"  I  commanded.  "Go 
at  once.  You  have  my  answer  to  your  base  lie. 
If  you  speak  a  word  I  will  do  worse  than  I  have 
done  already." 

He  obeyed  me.  It  did  not  then  seem  strange 
that  he  should  offer  no  further  resistance.  After 
ward  I  wondered  at  it  as  a  show  of  singular  cow 
ardice.  But  not  then.  A  sense  of  power  used  in 
a  supremely  just  cause  made  his  submission  the 
one  necessary  sequence.  It  must  have  been  the 
worst  kind  of  physical  fear  that  impelled  him. 
He  looked  a  most  pitiable  and  abject  figure  as  he 
staggered  off,  crestfallen  and  certainly  tingling 
with  pain. 


236  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

I  dropped  into  a  chair  when  he  was  gone,  breath 
ing  heavily  and  feeling  the  blood  still  surge 
through  every  vein.  Composure  gradually  came 
to  me,  and  with  it  that  reflective  change  which  is 
like  the  blue  of  sky  after  the  dwindled  tempest. 
But  I  could  not  accuse  myself.  I  had  punished 
no  personal  wrong.  The  outrage  uttered  against 
Mrs.  Dorian's  good  name  might  have  fired  many 
a  more  sluggish  defender.  Owing  her  the  inesti 
mable  debt  which  I  did  owe,  could  I  tamely  have 
borne  this  monstrous  aspersion. 

The  light  had  grown  dim  in  the  studio  when 
Casimir,  with  his  buoyant  step,  entered  it.  I  rose 
and  stretched  forth  both  hands  toward  him  as  he 
advanced.  He  gave  an  alarmed  start.  The  late, 
scant  sunshine  of  the  chamber  revealed  to  him 
how  pale  and  perturbed  was  my  face. 

"  Otho,"  he  said,  anxiously,  taking  my  hand, 
"  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"Don't  ask  me,"  I  exclaimed.  ...  It  was  a 
mere  form  of  speech.  There  was  inexpressible 
relief  in  having  him  question  me,  and  in  the 
thought  that  I  could  unburden  to  him  my  swell 
ing  heart.  I  dropped  his  hands  and  flung  both 
arms  about  his  neck.  And  then,  leaning  my  head 
upon  his  shoulder,  I  sobbed  like  a  child. 

A  little  later  I  dashed  away  my  tears,  in  shame 
of  them,  as  men  will  nearly  always  do.  But  Casi 
mir,  thrilled  and  pierced  by  sympathy  no  less  than 
astonishment,  now  clung  to  one  of  my  hands  with 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  237 

both  his  own,  imploring  that  I  would  tell  him  the 
cause  of  my  grief.  His  love  came  forth  in  those 
moments  with  a  new  beauty  and  pathos.  I  doubt 
if  I  can  call  it  by  its  rightful  name  without  declar 
ing  it  a  love  as  deep  as  any  that  man  has  ever  felt 
for  man. 

The  studio  was  filled  with  dusk  before  our  talk 
ended.  I  told  Casimir  everything  which  concerned 
Foulke  Dorian's  conduct  and  my  reception  of  it. 
He  shuddered  and  clinched  his  hands  when  I  came 
to  the  deadly  insult  paid  my  aunt. 

"  The  viper !  "  he  cried.  "  If  you  had  killed 
him,  Otho,  I  would  not  have  blamed  you ! " 

"Hush,"  I  said.  The  word  'kill'  hurt  me;  I 
recalled  the  first  blind,  mad  sensation  when  I  made 
my  attack.  "  There  is  more  to  tell  you,  Casimir," 
I  slowly  went  on.  "  It  concerns  this  resemblance 
between  Mrs.  Dorian  and  myself,  which  you  have 
no  doubt  observed." 

Casimir's  eyes  widened.  "You  are  really  re 
lated  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No."  .  .  I  was  glad  that  the  studio  had  become 
so  dim.  I  did  not  want  him  to  see  my  face  as  I 
went  through  the  full  history  of  my  own  life.  .  . 
He  listened  without  a  word  for  a  long  time,  while 
I  spoke  what  it  now  seemed  best  that  I  should  no 
longer  hide.  The  warmth  and  vigor  of  his  friend 
ship,  disclosed  anew  at  so  trying  an  hour,  had  filled 
me  with  confidential  longing  and  robbed  my  nar 
ration  of  all  reluctant  shame.  I  omitted  no  detail. 


238  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

Before  I  had  ended  he  knew  my  past  life  in  its 
entirety.  And  my  final  words  were  these : 

"Now,  Casimir,  I  have  told  you  all.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  this  should  be  only  the  begin 
ning." 

"  The  beginning,  Otho  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  rich 
with  tenderness  and  feeling.  "I  do  not  under 
stand." 

"  I  mean,  Casimir,  that  others  should  know  the 
truth.  Yes,  the  whole  world.  Am  I  wrong? 
After  what  I  have  done,  will  Foulke  Dorian  scru 
ple  to  publish  his  suspicions,  tainting  with  their 
foul  falsehood  the  honor  of  her  who  has  been 
my  priceless  friend?  And  if  his  slander  gains 
belief,  as  slander  so  often  does,  how  can  I  curse 
myself  enough  for  not  having  forestalled  its 
malice?" 

I  felt  the  pressure  of  my  companion's  hand  in 
the  deepened  dusk.  "Accept  my  advice,  Otho, 
if  you  always  reject  it  hereafter.  That  your 
father  died  upon  the  scaffold  is  no  real  disgrace  to 
you  —  God  knows  it  is  not !  But  society,  which  is 
always  cruel  enough  to  hold  it  as  one,  must  not 
be  given  this  easy  means  of  hurling  at  you  an 
unmerited  contempt.  And  as  for  Foulke  Dorian's 
future  course,  trust  me  when  I  assure  you  that 
self-interest,  if  not  cowardice,  will  prompt  him  to 
shield  his  aunt's  name.  He  has  no  shadow  of  proof 
that  what  he  said  was  true.  He  does  not  really 
hold  it  true.  He  tried  to  sting  you  with  it  because 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  239 

he  hates  you,  and  he  hates  you  because  he  is  jealous 
of  you." 

"  Jealous  ?  "  I  murmured.  My  thoughts  flew  to 
my  father,  as  they  always  did  when  I  heard  that 
word.  And  what  wonder  ? 

"  Yes,"  pursued  Casimir.  "  How  often  we  say 
of  men's  quarrels:  ^  11  y  a  une  femme  Id-dessous"1 ! 
And  we  are  nearly  always  right.  He  will  say 
nothing;  he  will  do  nothing  —  at  least,  not  for  the 
present.  He  may  take  some  mean  revenge  in  the 
future.  You  have,  in  that  case,  only  to  be  on 
your  guard.  A  snake  coils  and  glides,  but  he  dies 
easily ;  one  stout  stroke  will  kill  him." 

"This  is  the  land  of  duels,"  I  said.  "I  expect 
a  challenge.  If  I  receive  one  "  — 

"  From  him  ?  "  broke  in  Casimir,  with  a  scornful 
laugh.  "From  a  whipped  dog  like  that?  No, 
indeed ! " 

"  But  if  a  challenge  comes,"  I  said,  "  I  will  meet 
him.  And  you,  Casimir  "... 

"  Will  stand  handsomely  by  you.  Never  fear. 
But  you  are  wrong.  He  will  cure  the  marks  of 
your  horsewhip  with  something  safer  than  new 
blood  letting  —  rest  sure  of  that." 

Casimir  was  right.  We  waited  several  days  in 
Paris,  delaying  our  intended  journey,  to  give 
Foulke  Dorian  the  opportunity  of  communicating 
with  me  if  so  disposed.  But  he  made  no  sign. 
For  my  own  part,  I  loathed  duelling,  and  held  it 
as  one  of  the  darkest  social  ills.  But  I  could  not 


240  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

help,  in  the  present  case,  a  desire  to  afford  redress 
where  I  had  dealt  such  deep  humiliation,  however 
wantonly  incited  it  had  been. 

In  the  next  week  Casimir  and  I  left  Paris.  Mrs. 
Dorian  knew  nothing  of  what  had  passed.  I  ac 
cepted  my  friend's  counsel;  I  preserved  absolute 
silence  in  all  ways.  Our  trip  was  a  delightful  one. 
We  spent  nearly  a  month  in  the  old  Dutch  and 
Flemish  towns,  besides  catching  a  farewell  glimpse 
of  my  beloved  Switzerland.  In  early  September 
we  returned  and  found  Mrs.  Dorian  resigned  yet 
melancholy  over  the  projected  American  journey. 

I  made  inquiries  concerning  the  Gramerceys  in 
Paris,  but  could  learn  nothing.  By  the  middle  of 
September  we  all  three  took  passage  for  New- York. 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  241 


XL 


A  QUARTER,  of  a  century  or  so  has  made  striking 
changes  in  New-York.  Dwellers  in  the  city  itself 
do  not  recognize  how  radical  these  are.  It  is  not 
only  that  bold  avenues  have  pushed  their  way  up 
along  the  island,  lined  on  either  hand  with  solid 
and  stately  buildings,  and  easily  prophesying  how 
Central  Park  will  one  day  cease  to  be  a  suburban 
contradiction  of  its  name,  and  lie,  like  Hyde  Park 
in  London,  midway  of  a  huge,  busy,  compact  me 
tropolis.  The  mere  growth  of  the  city  is  evident 
enough,  as  also  its  partial  gain  in  architectural 
grace  after  the  long  undisputed  rule  of  severe 
ugliness.  Houses  are  frequently  reared,  at  pres 
ent,  without  violating  every  known  law  of  beauty, 
or  sometimes  they  gleam  like  happy  incidents  of 
true  art  amid  surroundings  that  accentuate  the 
hard  prose  of  brick-laying  and  stone-cutting.  In 
this  way  we  all  know  that  New- York  has  at  last 
waked  from  her  slothful  indifference.  It  has  al 
ready  become  commonplace  to  give  her  the  credit 
of  such  reformation.  We  drive  upon  her  broad 
boulevards,  sweeping  miles  out  into  the  country, 
and  though  they  are  now  lonely  enough,  fancy 


242  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

easily  borders  them  with  noble  structures.  We 
think  what  palaces  may  one  day  loom  above  the 
glittering  Hudson,  on  that  imperial  thoroughfare 
which  is  now  the  Riverside.  We  mark  here  and 
there  in  the  really  grand  park  a  statue  exquisite 
and  perfect  as  that  of  Shakespeare  at  the  southern 
end  of  the  Mall,  and  people  the  whole  forest-like 
expanse  with  busts  and  statues  yet  unhewn  from 
their  marble  or  uncast  from  their  bronze.  The 
sense  of  promise  in  all  this  is  overpowering.  The 
city  has  grown  so  mightily  in  less  than  three  short 
decades!  —  since  the  days  when  I  watched  the 
black  mass  of  rock  from  my  bedroom  window, 
and  seemed  to  hear  not  far  away  the  hum  of  that 
slowly  creeping  civilization  which  would  soon 
shatter  and  crush  it !  We  feel  on  the  threshold 
of  an  immense  creation,  as  our  eyes  roam  over  the 
vast  area  on  which  a  magnificent  city  shall  one 
day  stand.  But  a  strange  depression  waits  upon 
this  contemplation.  We  shall  long  ago  have  been 
dust  when  all  is  finished  and  splendid.  The  wea 
riest  of  us  have  a  thrill  that  we  cannot  at  first 
explain.  Then  it  resolves  itself  into  this :  We 
should  like  to  come  back  and  see  it  in  all  its 
grandeur  —  when  it  has  had  a  past,  a  history,  a 
record  of  far-reaching  traditions.  The  field  for 
speculation  is  immeasurable ;  the  optimist  may 
dream  of  civic  ideals  made  tangible,  the  pessimist 
may  see  luxury  throned  on  ruined  republican 
ism.  But  there  is  mortification,  almost  pain,  in 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  243 

the  thought  that  we  shall  have  moved  only  among 
crude  and  feeble  beginnings.  Perhaps  our  de 
scendants  will  wonder  that  we  ever  cared  for 
Rome,  Paris,  Vienna,  when  this  superb  Manhattan 
Island  shall  contain  its  lordly  repositories  of  paint 
ing  and  sculpture,  its  treasure-stored  museums,  its 
countless  monuments  of  majesty  and  dignity  ! 

But  the  changes  now  most  appreciable  to  one 
who  looks  below  the  surface  of  our  metropolitan 
progression  are  those  that  possess  a  purely  social 
import.  The  modes  of  living  have  been  altered  in 
more  ways  than  we  at  first  realize.  Foreign  cus 
toms  have  crept  into  New  York  at  a  stealthy  but 
sure  pace.  Twenty-five  years  ago  a  good  many 
people  dined  at  two  o'clock  and  supped  simply  at 
half-past  six,  who  have  to-day  quite  forgotten  the 
indulgence  of  any  such  primitive  habits.  The 
dining-room  was  not  seldom  in  the  basement  por 
tion  of  the  abode,  and  food  was  cooked  and  served 
with  homely  skill  and  in  few  courses.  The  upper 
dining-room,  adjacent  to  the  drawing-rooms  (then 
so  commonly  called  "  parlors  ")  had  only  begun  to 
assert  its  claim,  like  the  butler  and  footman  who 
superseded  the  widely  accepted  "  waitress."  Late 
balls,  with  a  profusion  of  viands,  were  rare.  Very 
few  people,  even  of  the  wealthiest  class,  kept  more 
than  one  private  carriage,  and  many  kept  none  at 
all.  Extravagant  and  sumptuous  costumes  among 
women  were  by  no  means  usual.  Neither  old  nor 
young  gentlemen  of  any  class  whatever  habitually 


244  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

donned  evening  attire,  and  "the  dress-coat  and 
white  cravat "  were  as  often  seen  at  a  morning 
wedding  as  at  an  entertainment  prolonged  until 
midnight.  The  fashions  of  England  and  France 
were  already  aped  by  a  certain  throng,  but  its 
number  was  not  large  and  its  influence  was  little 
felt.  To-day  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  boarding- 
house  in  the  extreme  East  or  West  portions  of 
town  where  a  six-o'clock  dinner  is  not  held  de 
rigeur ;  and  tea,  when  not  drank  daintily  at  five 
o'clock,  is  nearly  sure  to  be  an  accompaniment 
of  breakfast.  As  for  costly  equipages,  these,  like 
butlers  and  footmen,  are  now  a  legion  among  us, 
and  too  frequently  the  funds  that  secure  them  are 
squeezed  out  of  meagre  incomes,  or  robbed  from 
the  over-trustful  grocer  and  butcher  in  adjoining 
streets.  The  clerk  in  a  Sixth  Avenue  dry-goods 
store  who  anoints  his  locks  and  takes  his  sweet 
heart  to  a  dance  where  the  tickets  of  admission 
are  not  more  than  a  dollar  each,  will  hire  the  con 
ventional  swallow-tail  coat  for  one  night  if  he  be 
not  already  fortunate  enough  to  own  this  gar 
ment  ;  and  the  lady  whom  he  thus  escorts  will 
spend  her  last  savings  to  air  a  costume  of  becom 
ing  richness.  New  York  has  not  a  vestige  left 
of  her  old  provincial  moderation.  She  has  gone 
the  way  of  all  great  cities,  though  there  was 
incentive  for  trust  in  a  wiser  and  calmer  growth. 
It  has  been  of  little  avail  that  the  vast  Atlantic 
rolls  between  her  and  monarchical  cities.  From 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  245 

the  pretence  and  vainglory  witnessed  throughout 
every  various  grade  of  her  society  to  the  grossness 
of  her  political  corruptions,  she  offers  hardly  a 
point  of  divergence.  Not  even  her  worst  vices 
have  a  touch  of  originality ;  they  are  all  imported 
—  smuggled  through,  as  one  might  say,  free  of 
duty,  to  cheat  that  revenue  of  decency  which  the 
thrift  and  honor  of  her  patriots  and  founders  once 
firmly  established. 

When  Mrs.  Dorian,  Casimir  and  myself  reached 
New- York,  the  transition  period  had  more  than 
passed  its  primary  decisive  stage.  Of  course  I 
now  saw  the  social  side  of  the  great  city  for  the 
first  time.  Even  if  I  had  been  brought  into  con 
tact  with  it  in  my  childhood  I  would  have  been 
too  young  for  any  basis  of  comparison  to  aid  my 
present  survey.  And  now  it  all  struck  me  as  very 
interesting,  novel  and  extraordinary. 

"  One  must  be  terribly  respectable,  here,  or  one 
is  nobody,"  declared  Mrs.  Dorian,  soon  after  our 
arrival.  We  were  then  at  an  elegant  and  com 
modious  hotel,  and  were  looking  about  for  more 
permanent  and  domestic  quarters.  "  My  poor  old 
house  in  Lafayette  Place  will  no  longer  serve,  I 
fear.  It  is  too  far  '  down  town,'  as  they  say  here. 
How  the  city  grows  !  It  is  strange  that  anything 
should  grow  so  much  and  improve  so  little." 

"  I  think  it  has  improved  greatly,"  I  said.  "It 
is  not  the  same  city  at  all."  And  now  I  turned 
to  Casimir,  who  was  present.  "But  Casimir  is  by 


246  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

far  the  best  judge.  He  sees  it  for  the  first  time, 
with  unprejudiced  yet  artistic  eyes." 

"  You  wish  to  have  my  frank  opinion  ?  "  asked 
Casimir,  with  a  twinkle  in  the  gray  eyes  to  which 
I  had  just  alluded.  Thus  far  he  had  been  rather 
oddly  reticent  concerning  his  new  place  of  abode. 
He  heaved  a  great  comic  sigh,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "It  is  ugly  .  .  so  ugly!"  he  mur 
mured.  "  I  have  no  words  to  tell  how  ugly  I 
think  it.  I  see  rows  and  rows  of  houses  without 
one  least  little  beautifying  touch.  It  is  to  me  like 
a  city  built  by  people  whose  religion  is  to  worship 
grimness  and  awkwardness,  and  who  must  ignore 
all  beauty  on  pain  of  death." 

"  Delightful !  "  cried  Mrs.  Dorian,  clapping  her 
hands.  "  Casimir,  like  a  true  poet,  has  said  just 
what  was  waiting  to  be  said.  I  never  walk  out 
into  the  streets  here  but  I  wonder  at  the  folly  of 
people  for  paying  the  rents  they  do  pay.  It  is 
like  putting  a  premium  upon  hideousness." 

My  guardian  owned  a  number  of  the  houses 
to  which  she  so  disdainfully  referred,  and  she  at 
length  resolved  to  take  up  her  residence  in  one  of 
these.  It  was  situated  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  after 
a  speedy  but  thorough  renovation  it  made  for  us  a 
most  agreeable  home.  Her  other  property  I  soon 
found  in  a  deplorable  state.  Her  American  agents 
had  done  their  duty  in  a  slovenly  way,  and  with 
regard  to  neglect  of  the  offices  assigned  and 
accepted  by  them,  her  lawyers  had  shown  clear 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  247 

curability.  I  was  inexperienced  in  all  the  dis- 
entanglements  which  were  destined  to  follow,  and 
yet  as  neither  my  nerve  nor  my  judgment  was 
lacking,  several  weeks  of  close  application  gave 
me  the  clew  of  the  labyrinth.  The  task  set  for 
me  by  the  faulty  stewardship  of  others  presented 
sharp  difficulty.  More  than  once  my  investiga 
tions  verged  upon  a  discovery  of  something  worse 
than  indolent  management.  Hours  of  daily  labor 
were  not  alone  necessary,  but  the  employment  of 
capable  assistance  as  well.  I  set  tip  my  office, 
like  any  ordinary  man  of  business,  and  immersed 
myself  in  documents  like  the  busiest  of  lawyers. 
The  responsibility  of  re-arranging  affairs  which 
had  become  wretchedly  confused  was  by  no  means 
a  light  one.  Mrs.  Dorian's  perfect  trust  in  my 
capacity  for  the  work,  however,  acted  with  stim 
ulating  effect;  it  put  me  on  my  mettle,  and 
doubled  my  self-reliance.  Rapid  insight  and  the 
habit  of  precise  thought  proved  an  invaluable  help. 
What  it  was  requisite  to  learn  I  acquired  with 
speed  and  surety,  although  months  elapsed  before 
I  had  attained  any  thing  like  complete  mastery 
over  the  details  connected  with  this  large  and 
actually  imperilled  estate. 

But  the  absorption  needful  for  my  new  occupa 
tion  was  of  solid  mental  value.  It  kept  my  mind 
from  brooding  over  a  love  which  I  now  reflected 
on  with  despair.  This  love  was  still  deeply  rooted 
in  my  heart,  inalienable  from  life  itself.  I  would 


248  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

have  given  worlds  for  the  old  freedom,  but  I  knew 
that  it  lay  forever  beyond  reach.  My  guardian 
easily  obtained  for  me  an  entre&  into  what  were 
held  as  the  best  circles.  I  saw  many  refined, 
beautiful  and  attractive  women  ;  but  I  had  also 
seen  many  while  in  Paris  and  elsewhere.  None 
were  like  her ;  her  gesture,  her  glance,  her  voice, 
her  serenity,  her  delicate  wit — no,  not  even  her 
peculiar  alluring  coldness.  Just  as  she  had  been 
when  I  last  beheld  her,  she  reigned  now  as  my 
realized  and  incarnate  ideal.  I  felt  only  a  melan 
choly  pleasure  in  talking  with  other  women,  since 
those  who  reminded  me  of  her  did  so  at  their  own 
cost,  and  those  who  greatly  differed  from  her 
wasted  upon  me  their  brightest  smiles. 

Still,  society  here  amused  me.  My  old  uncon 
scious  art  of  pleasing  people  made  them  seek  me 
on  all  sides,  and  shower  invitations  upon  me  with 
lavish  hands.  I  sometimes  marvelled  to  myself 
that  I  should  be  so  popular.  It  seemed  strange 
enough  that  the  shallow  trick  of  saying  the  right 
thing  at  the  proper  moment,  of  wearing  a  gay 
smile  or  giving  a  tender  look,  should  achieve  such 
easy  conquest.  I  took  no  pride  in  my  success, 
and  won  it  without  an  effort.  All  tin's  has  so 
boastful  a  ring  that  I  hate  to  record  it.  And 
yet  what  is  there  to  plume  one's  self  upon  in  the 
possession  of  a  talent  resultant  from  no  virtue  or 
excellence?  I  was  young,  strikingly  handsome, 
highly  educated,  and  credited  with  the  heirship 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  249 

to  great  wealth.  But  everything  was  not  said 
in  that.  My  ability  to  attract  and  charm  was 
spontaneous,  unsought,  and  as  much  born  in  me 
as  the  curve  of  an  eyebrow  or  the  tint  of  a  com 
plexion.  And  its  careless  exercise  often  hid  a 
dreary  heartache. 

"  New-York  society  agreeably  disappoints  me," 
I  said  to  Mrs.  Dorian  one  day.  "These  fashion 
able  persons  among  whom  you  have  introduced 
me  are  very  much  like  those  I  met  abroad.  It  is 
true  that  they  are  imitative  and  unoriginal,  and 
that  their  assumptions  have  no  place  in  a  country 
like  America.  Still,  I  find  little  vulgarity  —  or 
rather  much  less  than  the  conditions  of  their 
existing  at  all  would  have  prepared  one  to  expect. 
What  in  Europe  is  transmitted  hereditary  usage 
here  becomes  unwarrantably  snobbery  ;  and  yet 
it  is  all  manifested  with  a  surprising  tact  and 
cleverness.  There  is  a  good  deal  for  the  philoso 
pher  to  lament  over,  but  there  is  also  a  good  deal 
for  the  unthinking  participant  to  enjoy." 

"  You  echo  my  own  opinions,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Dorian,  who  had  chosen  a  new  mood,  a  new  re 
ceptivity  of  impressions,  and  who  had  long  ago, 
of  course,  ceased  to  surprise  me  by  the  slightest 
novelty  of  enthusiasm.  "My  clear  Otho,  I  am 
in  sackcloth  and  ashes.  New- York  has  altered 
beyond  my  most  sanguine  fancy.  Of  course  she 
has  become  imitative ;  but  when  I  last  knew  her 
she  had  not  the  faintest  faculty  even  of  imitation. 


250  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

Her  beau  monde  was  a  doleful  stupidity  in  every 
sense.  A  few  of  her  Dutch  families  were  banded 
together  in  a  ridiculous  little  self-admiring  clique. 
Her  entertainments  were  the  soul  of  dulness  and 
insipidity,  without  the  least  air,  grace,  style.  Now 
I  find  her  quite  changed.  Her  Assemblies  at  Del- 
monico's  are  really  brilliant  and  enjoyable,  with 
their  cotillon,  their  bevies  of  fresh  young  damsels, 
their  floral  adornments,  their  tables  of  banquet. 
And  such  a  multitude  of  new  faces !  So  many 
names  that  one  never  heard  before !  What  an 
amazing  place  it  is,  when  people  can  absolutely 
make  a  solid,  distinguished  position  here  in  a  few 
short  years !  My  old  friend,  Mrs.  Stuy vesant 
Trinitysteeple,  laughingly  confided  to  me,  the 
other  day,  that  a  certain  Mrs.  Johnston  Smithson, 
was  in  great  doubt  concerning  myself.  She  wanted 
to  know  whether  I  had  ever  really  been  anybody 
in  New- York;  she  had  met  me  somewhere,  and 
liked  me,  and  wished  to  send  me  a  card  for  her 
reception,  but  she  was  not  sure  whether  it  was 
just  safe  or  no.  Mrs.  Trinitysteeple,  who  is  very 
free  of  speech,  declares  that  she  made  bold  to 
reply :  '  My  dear  Mrs.  Johnston  Smithson,  about 
six  years  ago  a  great  many  similar  questions  were 
asked  concerning  yourself.  Yet  a  much  longer 
time  ago  than  that,  Mrs.  Dorian  was  not  only  my 
intimate  friend  but  received  in  the  most  exclusive 
set ;  so  you  need  not  feel  at  all  anxious  on  the  sub 
ject  of  her  right  to  drink  tea  with  you.'  What  a 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  251 

crushing  reply,  was  it  not?  And  how  the  dear 
dead  Balzac  would  have  exulted  in  describing 
such  nouveaux  riches  as  the  Sraithsons !  But  I 
enjoy  this  modern  element  of  change  excessively. 
Formerly  there  were  so  few  pushers  and  strug- 
glers ;  it  was  all  one  prim  monotony ;  scarcely  a 
single  person  was  trying,  as  now,  to  buy  his  or 
her  way  past  the  select  limits.  Now  there  is  color, 
vivacity,  a  rivalry  of  extravagance,  a  contest  of 
castes.  Presently  we  shall  have  a  New-York  nov 
elist  ;  he  will  discover  something  to  write  about, 
and  consequently  he  will  exist.  They  tell  me  that 
Newport  in  the  summer  has  become  very  delight 
ful  ;  the  aspirants,  with  their  ambitions  and  their 
dollars,  are  building  beautiful  villas  there  and 
making  it  a  second  theatre  for  their  efforts  to  be 
received  among  the  old  cottagers.  It  is  a  charm 
ing  little  city  by  the  sea ;  I  was  there  years  ago,  I 
remember,  and  liked  its  delicious  air.  Shall  we 
go  there  next  summer?  Casimir  would  delight 
in  it,  I  fancy.  He  could  be  as  abhorrent  of  the 
fashionables  as  he  is  now,  and  yet  fit  up  a  studio 
looking  straight  out  upon  the  broad  ocean." 

"  I  think  I  should  prefer  a  quieter  place,  ma- 
dame,"  was  my  answer.  "All  this  whirl  and  glitter 
is  well  enough  here  in  town,  but  it  often  fatigues 
me  .  .  and  then  a  little  time  for  rest  and  read 
ing  and  sensible  repose  would  not  be  amiss  in  the 
warmer  months.  .  .  Still,  let  Casimir  and  you 
decide." 


252  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

Not  a  vestige  of  news  concerning  the  Gramer- 
ceys  had  yet  reached  me,  and  it  was  now  nearly 
the  beginning  of  March.  I  had  met  many  to 
whom  Ada  Gramercey  ill  her  merry-makings  of 
the  previous  year  had  been  admiringly  known. 
But  none  of  these,  as  it  chanced,  could  give  me 
tidings  of  her  present  whereabouts.  She  was  still 
abroad  with  her  father ;  I  learned  this,  and  I 
learned  no  more.  By  some  unhappy  accident  none 
of  the  friends  of  her  own  sex  with  whom  she  would 
have  been  likely  to  correspond  entered  within  my 
own  radius  of  acquaintanceship.  This  one  was  in 
mourning ;  that  one  had  gone  to  Washington  for 
the  winter ;  or  still  another  had  herself  crossed  to 
Europe.  But  I  was  certain  of  a  single  disturbing 
and  bitter  fact:  Foulke  Dorian  also  remained 
abroad.  To  associate  his  absence  with  that  of 
the  Gramerceys  had  of  course  become  inevitable. 

Mrs.  Dorian  had  meanwhile  paid  a  visit  upon 
her  brother-in-law,  which  she  described  to  me  with 
repelling  realism. 

"I  am  sure,  my  dear  Otho,  that  I  must  have 
audibly  shuddered  when  I  saw  him.  He  still  lives 
in  the  old  Washington  Square  house  where  his 
wife  died.  I  was  conducted  up-stairs  to  a  large 
front  room,  quite  bare  and  grim  in  its  appoint 
ments.  There  he  lay,  on  a  lounge  in  one  corner. 
He  was  wrapped  in  a  faded  dressing-gown.  His 
body  had  apparently  shrunk  to  nothing ;  his  face 
was  bloodless  and  withered,  and  the  hand  which 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  253 

he  extended  to  me  was  like  the  yellow  claw  of  a 
bird.  The  balls  of  his  eyes  appeared  to  float  about 
in  their  murky  spaces ;  they  were  like  the  eyes  of 
a  blind  man,  they  were  so  filmed  and  glassy,  and 
yet  you  somehow  knew  that  they  saw.  He  asked 
me  to  sit  near  him,  and  with  a  voice  that  was 
precisely  in  his  old  nasal  key. 

" '  Guess  you  think  I  look  pretty  bad,'  he  said 
to  me.  '  Most  people  do.  They  don't  tell  me  so, 
but  I  can  see  it  in  their  faces.  See  it  in  yours, 
Louise.' 

"  *  You  certainly  do  not  look  well,  Steven,'  I 
answered. 

"'No  more  do  you  look  young.  S'pose  you 
think  you  ain't  aged,  but  you  have.  Never  you 
mind  me.  Good  for  twenty  dead  men  yet.  No 
mistake.  Lucky  you  came  when  you  did.  Super 
intend  all  my  business.  Mornings  usually  en 
gaged.  Plenty  o'  life  in  me.  Mean  to  make  a 
few  more  dollars  before  I  go.'  Here  he  laughed 
a  husky  laugh  that  ended  in  a  spasm  of  coughing, 
while  he  rubbed  his  skinny  hands  together  as 
though  they  were  numb  and  he  wanted  to  put  heat 
in  them  by  the  friction.  It  seemed  like  mockery, 
Otho,  but  I  expressed  a  hope  that  he  would  soon 
recover,  and  asked  who  were  his  plrysicians. 

"'Doctors?'  he  cried,  with  another  wheezy 
cough.  '  Gave  'em  up  long  ago.  All  humbugs. 
Besides,  too  expensive.  Can't  afford  any.  Doctor 
myself.' 


254  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

"  We  talked  on  for  some  time,  and  I  found  that 
nearly  everything  he  said  dealt  with  either  one  of 
two  questions  —  avarice  or  personality.  He  has 
always  secretly  disliked  me,  and  he  now  made  his 
illness  and  feebleness  an  excuse  for  all  sorts  of 
venomous  allusions.  On  the  other  hand,  I  per 
ceived  that  he  was  living  in  the  most  pinched 
state  of  economy.  Coal  was  so  dear  that  he  would 
not  pay  the  price  of  it,  and  used  coke  —  as  a  sleepy, 
crumbled  fire,  not  far  off,  assured  me.  The 
charges  for  gas  had  become  extortionate,  and  he 
burned  candles  altogether.  He  talked  of  the 
whole  outside  world  as  though  it  were  in  a  huge 
conspiracy  to  defraud  him.  And  finally,  after 
having  referred  to  my  increased  figure,  my  sallow 
complexion  and  my  generally  deteriorated  looks 
with  enough  brazen  impudence  to  have  convulsed 
me  with  anger  if  anger  at  so  pitiable  a  mummy 
had  not  been  quite  ridiculous,  he  suddenly  re 
membered  you,  Otho,  and  inquired  sneeringly 
about  your  health.  I  told  him  you  were  very 
well,  had  grown  wonderfully  handsome,  had  taken 
high  collegiate  honors  in  Ziirich,  and  were  now 
both  a  comfort  and  a  pride  to  your  second  mother. 
But  I  have  never  seen  such  malevolence  as  he  then 
exhibited.  It  was  like  the  prolonged  snarl  of  a 
sick  animal.  He  threw  aside  all  the  double  mean 
ings  of  sarcasm ;  he  became  snappishly  insolent, 
and  with  a  kind  of  grisly  candor.  His  avarice 
and  his  personality  had  now  blended  their  forces. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  255 

I  had  no  business  to  leave  my  money  off  among 
Tom,  Dick  and  Harry.  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
myself,  and  I  very  well  knew  it.  Foulke  had 
written  him  from  Paris  that  I  had  made  you  one 
of  my  heirs,-  and  a  French  ragamuffin  of  an  artist 
the  other.  It  was  scandalous  that  my  husband's 
fortune  should  not  be  left  in  the  family  —  or  at 
least  a  good  half  of  it.  Foulke  would  know  how 
to  save  it,  invest  it,  put  it  to  good  uses.  Foulke 
was  not  only  a  Dorian,  but  a  splendid  fellow  be 
sides.  I  was  doing  an  outrageous  thing,  and  he 
felt  it  to  be  a  shame  that  the  law  could  not  reach 
me.  And  while  he  said  all  this,  Otho,  he  lifted  his 
shrivelled  shape  from  the  lounge  and  shook  at 
me  one  of  those  yellow  hands  that  had  already 
amassed  millions." 

"  Such  behavior,"  I  said  to  Mrs.  Dorian,  as  she 
paused,  "  has  a  flavor  of  insanity.  It  can  only  be 
condoned  on  that  ground,  truly  !  " 

"  Ah,"  exclaimed  my  guardian,  "  it  was  horrible, 
and  yet  it  was  superb.  That  lean,  cadaverous, 
repulsive  old  man,  in  his  faded  dressing-gown  and 
with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  produced  upon  me  an 
impression  which  I  positively  treasure.  He  is  no 
longer  a  man ;  he  is  a  passion,  an  appetite,  a 
greed." 

"  He  is  still  a  father,"  I  said. 

"  Only  because  his  son  is  a  part  of  him.  It  is 
the  egotism  of  paternity ;  it  is  in  itself  a  kind  of 
avarice.  He  believes  that  Foulke  will  continue 


256  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

the  clutch  upon  those  millions  when  his  own  yellow 
hand  is  unnerved  by  death ;  that  is  all.  He  is 
farouche,  effrayant,  but  he  is  keenly  interesting. 
He  should  be  painted  or  written  about.  I  should 
like  Casimir  to  see  him.  Casimir,  I  am  sure,  could 
make  something  grand  and  terrible  out  of  him."  .  . 

The  winter  had  nearly  come  to  a  close  when 
I  asked  Mrs.  Dorian  if  it  would  be  possible  for 
her  to  obtain  some  definite  tidings  regarding  the 
Gramerceys.  She  looked  at  me  with  a  surprise 
that  soon  gave  place  to  sympathetic  pity.  She 
understood  me,  and  promised  so  readily  to  use 
every  means  in  her  power  that  I  regretted  not 
having  sooner  engaged  her  kindly  services.  "  But, 
Otho,"  she  presently  asked,  "have  you  seen  no 
face  while  here  that  could  make  you  forget  Col 
onel  Gramercey's  daughter?  Are  you  hopelessly 
committed  to  that  one  memory,  mon  cher  ?  " 

"  Hopelessly,"  I  answered.  There  was  a  break 
in  my  voice  as  I  spoke  the  single  word.  And 
then  I  told  her  as  much  as  a  man  cares  to  tell 
on  so  delicate  a  subject,  though  strangely  enough 
it  was  one  which  I  now  often  discussed  with  Cas 
imir.  But  in  many  ways  Casimir  had  become 
almost  my  second  self.  Not  even  the  devoted 
friend  to  whom  I  then  appealed  could  rank  her 
influence  and  intimacy  beside  his.  I  had  grown 
to  lean  upon  his  love  like  a  staff,  and  to  expect 
his  loyalty  and  allegiance  as  if  they  were  the  very 
warmth  and  light  of  the  sunshine. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  257 

In  another  fortnight  Mrs.  Dorian  brought  me 
news  that  was  like  a  sudden  grievous  blow.  She 
had  sought  out  a  relative  of  Colonel  Gramercey's 
and  learned  that  the  recent  calamitous  failure  of 
an  old  and  widely  trusted  New- York  banking-house 
had  wrought  serious  disaster  to  his  fortune.  It 
might  be  absolute  ruin ;  there  was  no  telling  as  yet. 

The  affairs  of  D &  Co.  were  still  in  a  state 

of  utter  turmoil.  Their  name  had  stood  among 
the  very  highest  and  their  credit  was  deemed 
unassailable.  Others  besides  Colonel  Gramercey 
were  known  to  have  suffered  by  their  unforeseen 
collapse,  but  it  was  believed  that  he,  of  all  who 
trusted  them,  had  sustained  the  severest  losses. 

"  No  doubt  they  will  now  soon  return,"  I  said 
to  Mrs.  Dorian.  And  then  I  added,  with  a  touch 
of  bitterness  hard  to  restrain :  "  Perhaps  this 
event  will  force  her  marriage  with  your  nephew ; 
we  may  hear,  in  a  little  while,  that  she  is  coming 
back  as  Mrs.  Foulke  Dorian." 

"  Otho,"  answered  my  guardian,  looking  at  me 
very  intently,  "  will  such  an  event  break  your 
heart,  mon  ami?" 

I  laughed.  "  Hearts  do  not  break  so  easily/' 
I  replied.  "  What  Frenchman  was  it  who  said 
that  the  heart  is  a  muscle,  and  consequently 
tough  ?  " 

By  the  middle  of  March  I  learned  that  they 
were  home  again.  And  then,  but  a  few  days 
afterward,  tidings  reached  me  that  the  Colonel 


258  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

had  been  stricken  down  with  paralysis,  and  that 
his  life  was  despaired  of.  The  story  ran  that 

being  in  unsound  health  when  the  failure  of  D 

&  Co.  occurred,  the  effects  of  this  intelligence  had 
finally  prostrated  him. 

I  at  once  found  out  his  dwelling  and  presented 
myself  there  in  person.  It  was  a  little  after  eight 
in  the  evening.  The  servant  to  whom  I  gave 
my  card  civilly  assured  me  that  Miss  Gramercey 
could  see  no  one  whatever.  Her  father  was  pro 
nounced  better,  but  still  she  rarely  quitted  his 
chamber.  I  left  my  card  and  departed. 

Another  fortnight  passed.  Early  May  had  now 
set  in,  and  with  some  of  those  raw,  rainy  gusts 
which  make  her  praises  for  mildness  most  ill- 
suited  to  the  American  calendar.  The  buds  broke 
forth  in  Union  or  Madison  Squares  below  skies  of 
tender  color  and  in  breezes  of  elastic  freshness. 
Spring,  that  gives  its  deeper  thrill  to  so  many  old 
sorrows,  brought  to  my  longing  a  stronger  throb. 
It  was  fortunate  that  no  imperative  task  now 
claimed  me,  for  the  constant  recollection  that  she 
was  near  and  in  sad  trouble  scarcely  ever  passed 
from  my  thoughts.  I  had  written  her  a  score  of 
letters  and  destroj'ed  them  all  without  sending. 
My  moods  of  humility  were  fitful,  and  rapidly 
followed  by  those  of  accusation  and  reproach.  I 
think  Casimir's  incessant  reminders  that  I  had 
been  unfairly  dealt  with  vitalized  the  latter.  Even 
amid  her  distress,  he  argued,  she  might  have  seized 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  259 

a  moment  to  acknowledge  my  visit,  if  only  by  a 
single  line.  Still,  I  have  no  doubt  that  these  coun- 
sellings  from  one  who  held  homage  as  my  rightful 
due  on  every  side  would  not  have  prevailed  with 
me  but  for  the  unceasing  goad  and  hurt  of  what 
I  believed  to  be  Foulke  Dorian's  continued  suit. 
Not  more  than  a  week  after  the  arrival  of  the 
French  steamer  which  had  brought  Colonel  Gram- 
ercey  and  his  daughter  to  these  shores,  I  had  seen 
Dorian's  name  announced  in  a  newspaper  as  among 
the  passengers  of  an  English  steamer  just  landed. 
One  evening  we  unexpectedly  and  most  awkwardly 
met.  I  went  to  a  certain  reception,  given  at  what 
would  here  be  called  the  fag  end  of  the  season,  and 
reached  the  house  somewhat  late.  As  I  entered 
the  dressing-room  for  gentlemen  (with  its  lounge, 
bedstead,  chairs  and  floor  thickly  overspread  by 
bundled  coats)  I  perceived  that  a  male  figure  stood 
before  one  of  the  mirrors.  His  full-length  view 
was  reflected  before  me  as  I  crossed  the  threshold  ; 
he  was  languidly  pulling  on  his  gloves ;  he  looked 
thoroughly  the  man  of  fashion,  the  elegant  idler, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  while  I  drew  closer  that  he 
might  be  an  acquaintance  whom  I  had  met  during 
the  winter  gayeties.  Then,  in  a  few  seconds  after, 
I  discerned  his  face  ;  the  mirror  showed  it  me ;  it 
was  that  of  Foulke  Dorian. 

I  had  time  to  repress  all  signs  of  discomfort 
before  he  turned.  He  presently  did  turn,  and  at 
this  I  met  his  eye  with  cool  apparent  indifference, 


260  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

while  removing  my  wraps.  I  saw  him  start,  stand 
as  if  dismayed  for  an  instant,  and  then  walk  away. 
Soon  afterward  he  passed  out  into  the  hall. 

Later  I  saw  him  again  in  the  thronged  drawing- 
rooms  below  stairs.  '  How  he  must  loathe  me,'  I 
thought  as  I  detected  his  dull  gaze  more  than  once 
slipping  covertly  from  my  face.  4  It  must  be  the 
sort  of  hate  that  only  cowards  like  him  can  feel. 
If  she  had  seen  me  lay  that  lash  over  his  smooth, 
decorous  face,  I  wonder  whether  she  would  have 
no  scorn  for  him  to-day.' 

Of  course  a  man  reared  as  he  had  been,  with 
the  custom  of  command  among  servants,  so-called 
inferiors,  with  the  indulgence  and  precedence 
easily  secured  by  liberal  wealth,  must  have  writhed 
in  spirit  under  the  disgrace  of  stripes  like  those  I 
had  given  him.  It  could  not  be  otherwise;  and 
yet  did  not  his  non-resistance  of  the  crushing  dis 
grace  affirm  a  temperament  unmanly,  despicable,' 
with  blood  that  was  ichor,  and  a  craven,  dastard 
heart?  I  might  be  prepared  for  some  mean  re 
venge  from  him  —  a  blow  in  the  dark,  a  stab  in 
the  back.  Not  only  the  way  he  had  taken  my 
punishment  but  the  insult  by  which  he  had  called 
it  forth  should  both  forewarn  me. 

"You  spoke  of  living  quietly  this  summer, 
Otho,"  said  Mrs.  Dorian  to  me,  a  few  da}rs  later. 
"Shall  the  affairs  of  the  estate  be  sufficiently 
settled  for  you  to  leave  New- York  all  through  the 
coming  season  ?  " 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  261 

"  I  fear  not,"  was  ray  reply.  "  I  shall  have  to 
visit  town  at  least  once  or  twice  each  week." 

My  guardian  appeared  to  muse.  Her  face  be 
trayed  no  sign  of  the  subtle  little  plan  that  she 
was  hiding  from  me,  nor  did  the  faintest  suspicion 
of  it  for  a  long  time  afterward  enter  my  brain. 

"  You  said  something  the  other  day,"  she  con 
tinued,  "about  having. put  Rockside  in  the  hands 
of  an  agent  for  rent  this  summer." 

"  Yes,"  I  returned,  absently. 

"  My  late  husband  and  I  spent  many  months 
there.  It  is  a  charmingly  situated  place  ;  its  lawn 
slopes  directly  down  to  the  waters  of  the  Sound ; 
and  then  it  is  only  an  hour  by  train  from  town." 

"  Yes  .  .  .  Rockside,"  I  murmured,  recollect 
ing.  I  had  had  so  many  matters  of  rent  to 
concern  myself  with,  latterly,  that  it  required  an 
effort  of  memory  to  recall  just  what  were  the 
conditions  dependent  upon  the  purchase  or  lease 
of  this  special  property.  "  Ah,  true,"  I  went  on, 
brightening.  "  It  is  about  six  miles  from  New 
Rochelle ;  it  is  fifteen  acres  in  extent ;  the  house  is 
large  and  roomy,  with  a  splendid  water  view." 

"  Admirable  !  "  declared  Mrs.  Dorian,  laughing. 
"You  describe  it  like  a  house-agent.  Well,  go 
on.  How  many  bedrooms  are  there,  and  what  is 
the  state  of  the  drainage  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,"  was  my  answer,  "  but  I  am  sure 
of  one  thing:  Rockside  is  terribly  out  of  repair. 
A  succession  of  yearly  tenants  has  not  improved 


262  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

it.     Money  must  be  spent  if  we  expect  to  rent  it 
again." 

"  I've  a  caprice  to  go  and  see  it,  Otho.  If  we 
are  pleased,  why  not  spend  the  money  for  our 'own 
comfort  there?  From  now  until  June  there  will 
almost  be  time  to  build  another  house.  I've  an 
idea  that  we  could  render  it  thoroughly  charming. 
Let  us  make  the  journey  and  decide." 

I  acquiesced,  and  we  made  the  journey.  Casi- 
mir  went  with  us.  We  found  an  old-fashioned 
mansion,  standing  on  a  slight  eminence  and  over 
looking  a  magnificent  sweep  of  water.  Some 
stately  elm  trees  grew  near  the  huge  white  Cor 
inthian  pillars  of  the  front  piazza.  Lower  down 
were  cedars  and  hickories  in  profusion,  and  then 
a  strand  of  rugged,  jagged  rocks,  which  the  reces 
sion  of  the  tide  showed  to  be  densely  hung  at  their 
bases  with  clusters  of  tawny  sea-weed.  Nothing 
could  be  lovelier  than  the  whole  romantic  and- 
delightful  situation.  All  this  New- York  and  Con 
necticut  shore  of  the  great  Sound  is  indeed  incom 
parable  for  beauty.  Nature  here  meets  the  vast 
inland  sea  with  a  pastoral  tenderness  of  union. 
For  miles  and  miles  the  lichened  rocks  are  fringed 
with  foliage,  and  the  waves,  sobbing  among  un 
counted  coves,  reaches  and  crannies,  often  glass 
the  foliage  that  bends  above  them.  On  a  summer 
day  the  immense  sweep  of  waters  will  gleam  blue 
as  turquoise,  and  hundreds  of  white  sails  float  by 
in  the  dreamy  marine  distance.  Dimly  aloof  can 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  263 

be  sighted  the  low  sand-hills  of  the  Long  Island 
coast,  far  less  fair  on  a  nearer  view,  but  delicate 
and  visionary  when  the  pale,  drowsy  clouds  hang 
brooding  above  it. 

Casimir  was  in  ecstasies  over  the  place.  "Here 
I  shall  be  inspired  to  paint  as  never  before ! "  he 
exclaimed.  "  Ah,  let  us  come  here  by  all  means. 
It  will  be  a  divine  relief  after  the  horrors  of  that 
shocking  city  ! " 

I  shook  my  head  ruefully  and  pointed  toward 
the  house,  through  whose  dingy  and  uninviting 
chambers  we  had  lately  wandered.  "  Marvels  of 
alteration  and  beautifying  might  be  made  yonder," 
I  said. 

Mrs.  Dorian  laughed.  "  We  will  accomplish  the 
marvels,  then,"  she  announced,  and  with  an  air  of 
determination  which  struck  me  as  sudden,  but 
which  I  afterward  too  clearly  explained.  "  Alad 
din's  palace  was  built  in  a  night,  but  we  have  a 
number  of  days  in  which  to  decorate  and  adorn 
ours.  Casimir,  being  an  artist,  shall  choose  all 
the  designs  and  colors.  You,  Otho,  shall  attend 
to  the  practical  improvements.  We  shall  be  as 
extravagant  as  you  please,  my  friends,  so  long  as 
we  transform  with  the  wands  of  real  enchanters." 

Wealth  like  hers  could  of  course  produce  nearly 
everything  but  the  impossible,  and  May  had  not 
ended  before  Rockside  had  been  converted  into  a 
most  beautiful  home.  Mrs.  Dorian  remained  in 
town  until  all  had  been  finished,  insisting  that 


264  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

neither  Casimir  nor  myself  should  tell  her  any 
thing  of  what  our  repeated  absences  and  consul 
tations  had  brought  about  until  all  was  in  perfect 
readiness  for  her  reception.  Then,  at  last,  one 
pleasant  day  in  early  summer,  she  left  the  city  and 
took  up  her  abode  in  the  newly  appointed  dwell 
ing.  She  expressed  glowing  satisfaction  as  we  led 
her  from  room  to  room.  She  declared  that  she 
had  not  for  months  received  so  exhilarating  a 
series  of  impressions.  Casimir  had  been  in  his 
element  with  the  wall-paperings  and  tapestries 
and  general  upholstery  of  the  prim,  grave  old 
house,  and  I  had  spared  no  detail  of  purely  com 
fortable  renovation.  Gardeners  had  been  put  to 
work  with  telling  effect  upon  the  lawns,  drives 
and  paths ;  the  remodelled  stables  were  stocked 
with  horses  and  carriages ;  servants  and  grooms 
had  been  engaged  in  adequate  number,  and  past 
doubt  the  whole  result  of  labor  so  amply  aided  by 
capital  was  one  full  of  dignity,  ease  and  elegance. 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  said  to  Mrs.  Dorian,  as  we 
stood  in  the  soft  twilight  of  the  piazza  on  the  first 
evening  after  her  arrival,  "  that  more  than  once  I 
have  been  a  little  perplexed  by  your  willingness 
to  come  here  at  all  ?  " 

She  slightly  lifted  her  brows.  "  And  pray  why, 
Otho  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,"  I  replied,  lowering  my  voice,  "  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  say  so,  madame,  I  should  not 
suppose  your  association  with  Rockside  had  been 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  265 

precisely  of  the  pleasantest,  since,  as  you  have 
often  told  me,  your  married  life  was  by  no  means 
a  contented  one." 

"  Ah,  very  true,"  she  returned,  with  that  curi 
ous  sadness  of  hers  which  was  always  promising 
to  flash  out  into  some  bizarre  drollery.  "Those 
rocks  down  there  by  the  water  could  tell  you  how 
I  languished.  The  late  Mr.  Dorian  made  the 
place  a  perfect  prison.  He  was  so  economical 
that  he  would  not  let  me  have  a  saddle-horse,  and 
so  prosaic  that  he  thought  my  wanting  to  have  a 
little  summer-house  built  on  the  shore  and  covered 
over  with  vines  a  piece  of  insane  sentimentalism. 
I  was  bored  to  such  an  unspeakable  degree  in 
those  days  that  I  used  to  wonder  if  fate  were  not 
arranging  that  I  should  become  the  heroine  of 
some  picturesque  infidelity.  I  seemed  to  be  living 
through  the  prologue  of  an  excessively  improper 
novel  —  a  French  one  of  course.  But  it  all  ended 
there.  It  always  did  end  there." 

"  I  am  sure  that  it  always  did." 

"  Yes."  She  gave  one  of  her  low,  odd  laughs. 
"  My  tempter  always  continued  to  be  imaginary. 
If  he  had  not,  I  might  have  entered  upon  my 
widowhood  with  a  .surprisingly  bad  conscience." 

41  You  could  never  encanailler  yourself  except 
in  fancy,"  I  said.  "  But  I  hope  we  have  driven 
away  all  dreary  memories,  Casimir  and  I.  I 
agree  with  you  that  the  place  is  now  really  very 
pretty." 


266  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLA  UD. 

"Surpassingly  so."  She  laid  one  hand  on  my 
shoulder  and  looked  at  me  searchingly  in  the 
mellow  dusk.  "I  hope,  Otho,  that  you  will  be 
happy  here." 

"  I  shall  certainly  try  to  be." 

"That  is  a  very  unsatisfactory  answer.  We 
are  never  happy  when  we  try  to  be  ;  the  trying 
usually  makes  us  only  more  miserable." 

"  I  am  not  miserable,"  I  said. 

She  walked  away  from  me  and  paused  at  the 
edge  of  the  piazza,  looking  to  right  and  left  across 
the  vague  expanses  of  lawn,  where  the  boughs  of 
dark  trees  had  begun  to  vibrate  with  the  salty, 
fluting  night-wind.  "It  was  always  -a  rather 
lonely  spot,"  she  said,  as  though  following  out 
some  new  and  silent  train  of  meditation.  "  We 
had  no  neighbors  in  the  old  days ;  have  we  any 
now?" 

I  joined  her,  and  pointed  toward  a  somewha't 
thick  grove  of  trees  perhaps  a  hundred  yards 
away.  "  Our  domain  ends  there,  as  you  probably 
know.  One  day  as  Casimir  and  I  were  walking 
along  the  rocks  at  low  tide  we  found  ourselves 
in  front  of  a  good-sized  cottage,  built  with  a 
broad  veranda  and  having  the  air  of  being  occu 
pied  by  refined  people.  It  is  no  doubt  of  com 
paratively  recent  date." 

Mrs.  Dorian's  face  was  turned  from  mine,  if  I 
mistake  not,  as  she  carelessly  said :  "  Yes,  the  shore 
on  either  side  of  us  used  to  be  quite  uninhabited 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  267 

for  a  mile  or  more."  Then  after  a  slight  pause 
she  added :  "  Did  you  find  out  who  lived  in  the 
cottage  ?  " 

"No.  I  asked  one  of  the  men  that  day.  He 
knew  the  real  owner's  name,  but  said  that  some 
tenants  had  rented  it  of  him  for  the  summer." 

The  following  morning  was  brilliant  and  breezy, 
and  we  all  three  felt  the  effects  of  its  glow  and 
freshness.  The  tide  would  not  be  risen  till  mid 
day,  and  Mrs.  Dorian,  several  hours  before  that 
time,  went  with  Casimir  and  myself  for  a  stroll  along 
the  rocks.  Casimir  was  in  high  spirits ;  he  spoke 
of  the  sea,  the  air,  the  varying  tints  everywhere. 

"I  shall  paint  your  portrait  here  better  than 
I  could  ever  have  done  it  in  that  disagreeable 
city,"  he  said  to  me,  with  an  arm  about  my  neck. 
"Here  is  an  opportunity,  dear  Otho.  I  want  it 
to  be  a  masterpiece,  you  know,  and  with  so  much 
lovely  nature  looking  over  my  shoulder  while  I 
work,  I  am  nearly  sure  not  to  go  wrong." 

We  presently  came  to  that  part  of  the  shore 
directly  opposite  the  neighboring  cottage,  which 
was  a  sort  of  Queen  Anne  structure,  with  one  or 
two  marble  urns  gleaming  about  its  doorway  and 
a  general  surrounding  of  culture  and  nicety.  The 
trees  grew  so  thickly  near  the  shore  that  we  had 
to  look  upward  through  vistas  of  leafage  for  a 
full  view  of  the  house  and  its  environment. 

"There  is  a  lady  walking  on  the  lawn,"  said 
Casimir. 


268  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Dorian.  "  And  she  appears 
young  and  graceful." 

In  another  instant  I  had  seized  Mrs.  Dorian's 
hand.  "  Good  Heavens,"  I  murmured,  "  she  is 
Ada  Gramercey." 

My  guardian  turned  her  face  to  mine.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  were  twinkling. 
"  My  dear  boy,"  she  exclaimed,  "  3-011  know  now 
why  I  wanted  to  come  to  Rockside.  She  is  there 
with  her  father.  Don't  stare  at  me  so  stupidly. 
You  are  as  pale  as  a  ghost,  and  look  as  if  you 
were  going  to  faint." 

I  drew  a  long,  tremulous  breath.  "I  never 
felt  more  like  fainting  in  my  life,"  I  answered, 
stammeringly.  "  You  —  you  should  not  have  done 
this,  madame.  You  —  you  should  have  told  me 
before." 

Mrs.  Dorian  pressed  my  hand.  "Forgive  me," 
she  said.  "  It  was  my  secret  —  my  surprise.  I 
hope  you  will  not  be  angry." 

"I  am  not  angry,"  I  answered  slowly.  .  .  "But 
how  strange  it  all  seems !  It  is  like  a  dream. 
But  still  a  very  happy  dream."  .  .  I  could  say 
no  more.  The  tears  blinded  and  choked  me. 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  269 


XII. 

WE  went  back  to  our  own  home  a  little  later. 
As  we  did  so  Mrs.  Dorian  spoke.  "  Otho,"  she 
said,  "I  learned  several  weeks  ago  that  they 
were  there  —  that  they  had  rented  the  Lamberts' 
cottage.  Old  Mr.  Lambert  told  me  one  day  at 
an  afternoon  reception.  He  knew  that  my  own 
property  adjoined  his,  and  made  certain  inquiries 
about  Rockside.  And  then  my  plan  was  formed. 
I  was  a  little  afraid  that  if  I  let  you  know  the 
truth  your  pride  or  your  sense  of  correct  usage 
would  forbid  the  whole  affair.  So  I  waited  until 
you  should  make  the  discovery  for  yourself,  which 
you  have  just  done." 

"I  fear  that  it  will  prove  a  discovery  full  of 
torment,"  I  said.  "  We  are  near  each  other  and 
yet  still  very  far  apart." 

"Perhaps  you  are  wrong,  Otho.  I  mean  to 
pay  Ada  a  visit  very  soon  —  no  doubt  to-morrow. 
I  owe  her  such  a  civility,  surely ;  I  knew  her 
mother  quite  well.  It  may  be  that  she  has  heard 
we  are  here.  If  so  she  will  be  prepared  for  me, 
as  it  were.  If  not  I  shall  be  such  a  surprise  to 
her  that  she  will  probably  reveal  some  pleasant 
truth  which  I  caii  impart  to  you  afterward." 


270  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

I  sighed  and  shook  my  head.  "  You  speak  as 
if  you  were  certain  that  she  cares  for  me." 

"  Certain  ?  "  echoed  my  guardian.  "  I  haven't 
a  shadow  of  doubt !  You  can't  mean  that  you 
really  believe  she  prefers  that  supercilious,  arti 
ficial  Foulke  Dorian  to  my  brilliant  Otho  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dorian  paid  her  intended  visit  on  the  mor 
row.  It  is  needless  to  state  with  what  anxiety 
I  awaited  her  return.  I  met  her  carriage  (she  had 
chosen  to  drive)  at  one  of  the  lawn-gates,  and  on 
seeing  me  she  alighted  from  it,  walking  toward 
the  house  at  my  side. 

"Well,"  she  at  once  began,  "I  must  confess  to 
you  that  I  have  had  a  most  unsatisfactory  time. 
Ada  received  me  with  a  very  gracious  and  amiable 
manner.  She  is  a  little  paler  and  thinner  than 
she  used  to  be.  The  Colonel  was  taking  his  after 
noon  nap ;  he  is  still  feeble  and  requires  much 
rest,  but  she  has  strong  hopes  of  his  one  day  be 
coming  almost  well.  She  spoke  of  him  a  great 
deal  and  described  some  of  the  details  of  his 
illness;  she  is  certainly  a  paragon  of  daughters. 
She  had  heard,  about  a  fortnight  ago,  that  we 
would  occupy  Rockside  this  summer." 

"  We  ?  "  I  said  interrogatively. 

"I  suppose  she  must  have  taken  the  'we'  for 
granted.  But  she  did  not  put  it  that  way,  Otho ; 
I  am  bound  to  be  truthful.  Her  '  you  '  was  com 
prehensive,  inclusive  —  at  least  I  so  construed  it. 
I  behaved  with  a  splendid  hypocrisy.  I'  unblush- 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  271 

ingly  told  her  that  we  had  heard  only  yesterday 
who  our  neighbors  were.  She  never  changed  color 
by  a  shade  during  all  our  interview ;  her  self-pos 
session  was  admirable,  but  too  admirable.  When 
I  said :  '  Otho  .and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  you  on 
the  lawn  the  first  morning  after  our  arrival,'  she 
preserved  a  composure  that  was  delicious ;  she 
has  not  been  a  belle  in  the  fashionable  world  for 
nothing.  But  I  admit  she  disarmed  me.  My 
usual  audacity  did  not  stand  me  in  good  stead  at 
all ;  the  only  pointed  remark  that  I  had  the  cour 
age  to  risk  was  an  expression  of  your  very  kindly 
wishes  and  of  your  intention  to  offer  them  in 
person  at  some  future  time." 

"  That  was  indeed  a  stroke  of  boldness,"  I  said, 
with  melancholy  consternation  in  my  tones.  "And 
how  did  she  receive  it?" 

"  With  a  little  non-committal  smile  and  an  in 
clination  of  the  head  that  was  serenity  itself.  .  .  . 
But  don't  see  everything  en  moir,  dear  Otho, 
merely  because  she  was  so  equable  and  placid. 
For  my  part  I  would  simply  go  there  and  have  it 
out  with  her  —  as  the  Americans  say.  Her  fault 
hitherto  has  been  coldness,  but  the  danger  to  her 
father  has  softened  her;  one  could  perceive  this 
while  she  spoke  of  him.  Of  course  I  did  not 
mention  their  loss  of  fortune,  so  I  have  no  proof 
of  how  she  bears  that  trouble.  With  philosophy,  I 
should  imagine,  however.  She  has  the  look,  the 
mien,  of  one  who  would  bear  it  that  way.  .  .  . 


272  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

And  now  let  me  give  you  a  bit  of  counsel,  mon 
ami.  Be  calm,  persistent  and  brave.  Such  a 
woman  as  she  is  requires  more  than  lukewarm 
wooing.  Let  her  see  that  your  love  has  mastered 
your  spirit — all  women  like  to  see  that;  but  never 
let  your  tenderness  take  the  tint  of  weakness ;  I 
am  sure  that  would  never  please  her.  Don't  be 
afraid  to  tell  her  that  you  think  her  an  angel  or  a 
goddess ;  the  darker  she  frowns  the  more  she  will 
secretty  enjoy  it.  What  she  will  not  enjoy  will  be 
professions  a  demi-mot  —  an  unwillingness  to  show 
her  just  how  hard  she  can  make  your  heart  beat 
and  just  how  much  happiness  it  is  in  her  power  to 
bestow  upon  you."  .  . 

I  recoiled  from  the  possible  pain  which  an  open 
visit  might  bring  me,  but  for  several  mornings  I 
left  Casimir  painting  in  his  studio  and  stole  forth, 
with  a  half  guilty  feeling  of  trespass,  to  the  rocks 
whence  I  had  recently  gained  sight  of  her.  But 
disappointment  repeatedly  followed  these  anxious 
little  excursions.  Sometimes  an  hour  of  watching 
through  the  boughs  of  the  mingled  cedars  and 
hickories  would  not  even  bring  me  the  meagre 
comfort  of  a  fleeting  face  at  one  of  the  windows. 
Again,  I  would  have  some  such  transient  view, 
but  it  might  have  been  that  of  a  servant's  face, 
so  quickly  the  vision  passed.  One  morning,  how 
ever,  fate  was  suddenly  kinder.  Dressed  in  white 
and  holding  a  book  in  her  hand,  Ada  appeared  on 
the  veranda,  pausing  there  for  a  moment  and  then 


TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  273 

slowly  descending  to  the  lawn.  In  a  little  while 
I  saw  that  she  was  advancing  straight  toward  the 
water.  I  felt  my  heart  leap  in  my  breast ;  then  I 
became  quite  tranquil  again.  She  came  nearer, 
and  I  retired  into  the  shade  of  some  branches, 
where  I  could  observe  and  yet  miss  immediate 
observation.  Five  or  six  rough-hewn  steps  led  to 
the  flat  surface  of  a  large  rock,  and  just  as  her  foot 
had  cleared  the  last  of  these,  I  moved  from  my 
ambush. 

She  gave  a  great  start  on  seeing  me.  I  at  once 
raised  my  hat  and  came  close  to  her  side.  I  put 
out  my  hand  then,  saying  as  quietly  as  I  could 
manage,  "  Good  morning." 

She  extended  her  hand  in  return,  repeating  my 
own  words.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  had  never 
looked  so  beautiful  as  now,  with  a  wave  of  rosy 
color  flying  across  her  face  under  the  cool  white 
muslin  of  her  sun-hat. 

I  knew  that  she  would  hold  any  attempted  sub 
terfuge  as  trivial,  and  I  had  not  the  least  desire  to 
offer  one.  "  I  saw  you  coming  across  the  lawn," 
I  said,  retaining  her  hand  until  she  gently  with 
drew  it,  "  and  so  I  waited,  in  the  hope  that  you 
might  care  to  meet  me." 

Her  ordinary  repose  had  nearly  if  not  quite  come 
back  to  her.  "  It  is  many  months  since  we  have 
met,"  she  said,  somehow  avoiding  my  direct  look, 
though  not  with  actual  evidence  that  she  was  doing 
so.  "  Did  you  come  from  the  village  ?  " 


274  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  From  the  village  ?  "  I  asked,  grateful  for  the 
chance  of  a  temporary  topic  far  away  from  that 
tumult  of  feeling  which  her  "voice  and  presence 
roused.  "  Can  one  reach  the  village  by  this 
route  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes."  She  pointed  in  a  direction  just 
opposite  to  that  which  I  had  taken.  "  The  shore 
curves  inward  a  few  yards  farther  on.  There  is 
a  little  path  leading  through  the  trees,  by  which 
one  can  take  a  short  cut  to  the  village.  It  is  very 
convenient  in  pleasant  weather ;  it  is  such  a  pretty 
walk." 

"  Were  you  going  by  that  way  ?  " 

"I?  Oh,  no.  I  rarely  leave  papa  for  any 
length  of  time.  And  during  the  past  day  or  two 
he  has  not  been  as  well  as  formerly." 

"I  see.  You  merely  came  down  to  the  rocks 
for  a  breath  of  this  delightful  air.  I  am  very 
sorry  to  hear  your  father  has  had  a  relapse.  Mrs. 
Dorian  brought  good  news  of  him." 

"  It  is  not  a  relapse,"  she  said,  quickly,  as 
though  the  word  jarred  upon  her.  "  I  am  thankful 
that  it  need  not  be  called  by  so  serious  a  name. 
He  has  fits  of  severe  weakness ;  his  strength  comes 
and  goes  —  that  is  all." 

"  And  you  have  nursed  him  so  devotedly ! "  I 
said.  My  voice  betrayed  me  for  an  instant,  and 
I  saw  her  glance  soften  and  then  droop.  But  I 
had  no  wish  to  stir  any  depths  to-day ;  what 
I  longed  for  was  the  old  familiarity  of  intercourse, 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  275 

that  normal  pulse-beat  of  talk  which  has  no  dis 
concerting  pause  or  flutter.  I  wanted  to  push  the 
past  out  of  sight  and  keep  it  thus.  I  should  have 
liked  to  make  a  new  past  —  a  sweet  idyllic  back 
ground  for  the  interchange  of  future  vows  — 
through  the  summer  days  that  were  still  unborn  ! 
And  yet  all  this  desire  was  so  futile  I  That  which 
we  had  both  been  and  done  and  suffered  could 
not  be  thrust  away.  It  lived  in  the  very  light  of 
her  eyes,  in  the  sound  of  her  speech.  More,  it 
had  become  part  of  the  rustling  leaves  and  break 
ing  waves ;  the  lips  of  the  wind  whispered  it  to 
me  and  the  blue  of  the  heaven  confirmed  it. 

"  Your  father  was  always  so  dear  to  you,"  I 
went  on.  "  There  are  few  daughters  who  would 
have  shown  your  unfailing  tenderness." 

"  They  do  not  deserve  to  be  called  daughters 
who  would  not  show  it,"  she  answered,  with  a 
shocked  surprise.  "  Poor  papa  had  not  only  ill 
ness  to  contend  with  ;  there  was  that  other  trouble. 
It  came  so  hard  to  him.  You  know  what  I  mean, 
of  course." 

"  Yes.  His  reverses  of  fortune.  .  .  And  did  you 
mind  them  much  less  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  She  made  a  sad  little  gesture  with  one 
uplifted  hand.  "  No  doubt  I  would  have  cared 
a  great  deal  more  but  for  his  dreadful  seizure. 
When  the  news  first  came,  it  was  a  blow  to  me. 
Why  not?  One  feels  at  such  times  as  if  the 
ground  were  failing  under  one's  feet.  I  had  never 


276  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

thought  about  money  at  all ;  it  was  like  the  air  I 
breathed  —  our  income  was  thousands  more  than 
we  needed."  She  smiled  now  as  she  looked  at  me. 
"I  used  to  give  away  in  careless  charities  each 
year  more  than  I  now  live  upon.  But  it  is  a  great 
mercy  that  something  has  been  saved.  They  tell 
us  we  shall  never  positively  want;  there  is  conso 
lation  in  that  thought." 

We  spoke  together  for  some  time  about  the 
failure  which  had  been  so  disastrous  to  others 
besides  her  father  and  herself.  I  found  that  she 
had  been  penetrated  by  the  liveliest  sympathy  for 
these  others.  "  Some,  I  hear,"  she  told  me,  "  have 
been  made  quite  penniless  —  people  who  had  but 
little,  and  had  placed  it  all  with  those  trusted 
bankers.  I  turn  bitter  when  I  reflect  upon  the 
wrong  they  must  endure." 

"  And  you  are  not  bitter  about  your  own  loss  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  No ;  there  is  always  a  feeling  of  gratitude  that 
the  very  worst  did  not  happen.  While  papa  con 
stantly  required  me,  I  should  have  been  called 
upon  to  work,  as  it  were,  with  bound  hands.  And 
even  if  I  had  been  free,  this  necessity  would  have 
distressed  me  terribly.  I  can't  account  for  the 
distaste  I  have  to  earn  my  own  living.  No  doubt 
I  could  have  got  a  place  as  governess  in  some 
family;  my  knowledge  of  languages  and  music 
might  not  have  rendered  it  difficult.  But  the 
demand  would  have  stung,  almost  crushed  me. 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  277 

I  know  this  repulsion  is  wrong,  wicked.  But  I 
can't  control  it.  I  begin  to  think  it  some  deep 
hereditary  fault.  Am  I  not  right?" 

"  Pride  does  not  die  easily,"  I  said. 

"  It  is  pride,"  she  answered,  plucking  a  bit  of 
green  fringe  from  a  cedar  at  her  side,  and  slowly 
nodding  her  head.  "  I  would  give  so  much  to 
conquer  it,  but  I  cannot.  I  have  often  heard  that 
sorrow  humbles ;  but  it  has  not  humbled  me.  I 
think  it  has  brought  me  nearer  to  the  big,  strug 
gling  world  of  humanity,  and  that  is  all.  Nearer, 
I  mean,  in  spirit  but  not  in  real  equality  of  fellow 
ship.  I  still  hold  myself  aloof,  as  one  not  to  be 
counted  with  the  general  herd.  I'm  not  afraid 
to  call  it  by  its  proper  name — arrogance,  if  you 
please.  But  it  is  there,  and  it  will  not  perish." 

"  Do  not  regard  it  as  arrogance,"  I  said  softly. 
"  Learn  to  look  upon  it  as  a  wholesome  self-esteem, 
and  then  it  will  cease  to  disturb  you." 

She  smiled,  but  her  eyes  were  melancholy.  "  No, 
I  can't  deceive  myself  in  that  way.  I  have  out 
grown  the  love  of  flattery  which  I  once  had  —  if 
I  ever  really  had  it,  as  you  told  me." 

"  Oh,  forget  and  forgive  those  foolish  words  of 
mine,"  I  suddenly  pleaded.  "  You  don't  know 
how  I  have  repented  them  since  they  were 
spoken." 

She  met  my  look  unhesitatingly,  then.  "I  have 
forgiven  them  long  ago,"  she  said,  in  her  sweetest 
tones.  Her  face  saddened  instantly  as  she  con- 


278  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

tinued :  "All  that  sort  of  pride  has  quite  departed 
from  me." 

"And  —  and  you  admit  then,"  I  stammered, 
"that  I  —  I  had  some  cause  for  —  for  losing  con 
trol  there  in  Paris  that  afternoon  ?  " 

"  There  is  always  a  cause  for  everything,"  she 
replied,  turning  as  if  to  re-ascend  the  stone  steps. 
"  But  so  many  of  us  will  not  make  allowances ; 
we  simply  hug  our  wounds  and  feel  cruel  toward 
those  who  have  given  them." 

"  And  were  you  really  wounded  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  .  .  flattered." 

"  And  you  felt  cruel  toward  me  ?  " 

"  I  did  at  first  .  .  but  afterward  I  "  — 

"  Ah,"  I  broke  in  with  fervor,  "  afterward  your 
troubles  came,  and  they  softened  you  !  But  I 
have  been  fearing  otherwise  for  months.  I  feared 
so  more  than  ever  when  you  refused  to  see  me  in 
New-York." 

"  Papa  was  very  ill  then.  I  could  see  no  one." 
As  she  thus  spoke  she  had  begun  to  ascend  the 
steps.  I  had  followed  her  several  paces  uncon 
sciously,  and  she  was  looking  at  me  now  across 
one  shoulder. 

"  You  are  going  ?  "  I  faltered. 

"  Yes.  I  must  go."  Her  voice  was  very  kindly, 
but  it  was  nothing  more.  She  put  out  her  hand, 
which  I  took.  "  Good  morning.  .  Mrs.  Dorian 
said,  I  think,  that  you  meant  to  come  and  see 
papa." 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  279 

"  Yes,"  I  answered.  "  What  time  will  be  the 
best?" 

"  At  about  four  in  the  afternoon  he  is  usually 
able  to  go  down  stairs  for  a  little  while.  But  you 
must  expect  to  find  him  greatly  changed." 

"  May  I  come  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"No.  I  fear  he  will  not  be  well  enough  to 
receive  you." 

"  To-morrow,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to-morrow." 

She  went  lightly  up  the  steps  without  another 
word. 

I  wondered,  through  the  rest  of  that  day, 
whether  Mrs.  Dorian  or  Casimir  noticed  the  joy 
which  filled  my  heart  and  seemed,  so  far  as  1 
could  tell,  to  dance  in  my  gaze  and  ripple  through 
my  talk.  But  if  either  had  made  a  discovery  of 
it  I  received  from  them  no  sign  that  this  was 
true.  From  then  till  to-morrow  at  four  spread 
outward  like  a  small  tract  of  eternity  itself. 

When  this  appointed  hour  came  I  took  the  path 
along  the  rocks  and  went  up  to  the  Gramerceys' 
lawn  by  the  same  steps  which  she  whom  I  loved 
had  ascended  on  leaving  me.  Ada  met  me  on  the 
veranda  before  I  had  time  to  ring  the  bell. 

"Papa  is  quite  bright  this  afternoon,"  she  said, 
"and  is  waiting  to  see  you  in  the  sitting-room." 
Then,  lowering  her  voice,  she  proceeded :  "  Try 
not  to  show  any  surprise.  You  will  hardly  recog 
nize  him  at  first." 


280  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

I  needed  her  warning.  The  Colonel  was  seated 
in  an  arm-chair  as  I  entered  the  small,  tastefully 
appointed  chamber.  He  did  not  attempt  to  rise 
when  I  advanced  toward  him.  His  smile,  full  of 
a  rich,  dignified  cordiality,  was  the  same  as  of  old  ; 
all  else  had  changed  with  him.  His  form  had 
shrunken ;  his  face  was  almost  deadly  pale ;  his 
eyes,  ringed  with  gloom,  were  dim  and  faded ; 
all  his  martial  stateliness  of  the  past  had  vanished, 
and  there  was  infinite  pathos  in  the  tremor  of  the 
waxen,  transparent  hand  which  he  gave  me.  I 
was  deeply  touched ;  I  scarcely  knew  what  to  say  ; 
and  when  he  himself  spoke,  his  hollow,  hesitating 
tones  were  the  last  pitiful  proof  of  his  complete 
physical  ruin.  And  yet  his  mind  seemed  clear 
enough,  and  with  the  evidence  of  its  soundness 
I  could  also  trace  the  well-remembered  courtesy, 
the  infallible  signs  of  gentlemanly  high  breeding. 
He  made  no  reference  to  his  own  ills  ;  he  appeared 
to  prefer  that  these  should  not  be  touched  upon. 
In  his  wreck  and  downfall  he  was  still  able  to 
perform  the  part  of  host,  and  caused  me  to  feel 
this  by  a  sort  of  impalpable  emphasis.  The  grand 
manner  was  still  preserved  in  him ;  you  realized 
that  only  death  could  destroy  it,  and  death  could 
surely  not  be  far  distant.  Now  and  then  his 
daughter  would  help  him  in  the  shaping  or  ending 
of  a  phrase,  but  always  with  that  consummate  tact 
which  had  doubtless  been  lovingly  studied  in 
hours  of  vigil  and  ministration.  She  had  taught 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  281 

him  to  accept  the  aid  of  her  brisker  speech  with 
out  letting  it  remind  him  of  his  own  need  ;  she  had 
become  to  him  like  the  staff  whose  handle  so 
perfectly  fits  our  grasp  that  we  lean  there  forgetful 
of  how  much  we  owe  its  support.  She  had  in  a 
way  placed  her  youth  and  her  fresh  young  vigor 
between  himself  and  too  keen  a  recognition  of  his 
shattered  state.  It  was  very  charming  to  note  this 
half-conscious  dependence  and  this  capable,  alert 
response.  She  grew  if  possible  dearer  to  me  as  I 
watched  how  duteously,  promptly,  unerringly  she 
performed  her  more  than  filial  part. 

"  She  gets  her  pride  from  him,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"  It  is  the  pride  of  race,  the  honor  of  self  because 
one's  ancestry  has  been  held  honorable.  There  is 
the  old  noblesse  oblige  about  it,  telling  of  all  that 
was  best  in  those  motives  and  claims  which  brought 
forth  the  patrician  spirit.  They  are  both  true 
aristocrats,  and  their  pride  is  not  their  foible  but 
their  right." 

Stanch  republican  as  I  was,  I  believed  this  of 
both  father  and  daughter,  though  my  creed  was 
doubtless  rooted  in  my  ardent  love.  Ah,  how 
would  such  pride  as  hers  counsel  her  if  she  knew 
my  own  origin  ?  Would  not  repugnance  be  in 
stinctive,  and  could  I  dare  to  blame  her  for  its 
betrayal  ? 

My  interview  with  the  Colonel  was  not  a  long 
one.  Ada  soon  insisted  upon  conducting  him  up 
stairs,  though  she  made  it  graciously  clear  to  me 


282  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

that  his  exit  need  be  no  signal  for  my  departure. 
She  presently  returned,  and  we  went  out  upon 
the  veranda,  sitting  where  a  breadth  of  loose- 
matted  vine  gave  us  glimpses  of  the  intensely  blue 
afternoon  sea,  like  the  vignettes  you  sometimes 
meet  in  books.  It  was  such  delight  to  be  her  sole 
guest,  having  her  unshared  heed,  marking  the  flex 
ile  lines  of  her  shape,  the  rich  tints  of  her  auburn 
tresses,  the  manifold  shades  of  expression  that 
came  and  went  on  her  clear-cut  face.  She  had 
brought  a  piece  of  sewing  with  her  that  represented 
no  dainty  bit  of  fancy  work  such  as  the  most 
indolent  lady  will  use  her  hands  upon  in  pretty 
semblance  of  toil.  It  was  a  genuine  seam,  binding 
together  two  portions  of  a  sleeve,  and  she  plied 
her  needle-strokes  with  sincere  energy,  quietly 
remarking  as  she  began  them  : 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  mind  my  industry.  It 
has  become  more  or  less  necessary  nowadays,  you 
know." 

"  I  can  mind  it  only  to  applaud  it,"  I  said.  "  The 
new  attitude  fits  you  astonishingly  well  —  much  bet 
ter  than  the  embroidering  of  those  birds  and  roses 
which  with  many  women  are  an  affectation  of  toil." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh.  "My  birds  are  flown 
and  my  roses  withered,  I  fear." 

"  Some  day  they  will  sing  and  bloom  again  —  I 
hope." 

"  Hope  is  not  realization."  She  bent  her  head 
a  trifle  lower  while  thus  speaking. 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  283 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not,  with  me,"  I  answered. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  "You  have 
all  the  world  before  you.  Hope  should  be  your 
most  natural  impulse." 

"It  is.  But  'all  the  world'  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it  at  present.  Its  object  is  more  limited  if 
not  less  ambitious." 

She  chose  to  leave  this  reply  unnoticed.  "  You 
have  thought  of  no  career  as  yet?"  she  ques 
tioned. 

"  I  have  thought  of  only  one  — politics.  I  have 
no  aptitude  for  any  other.  The  law  repels  me, 
since  I  possess  just  enough  imagination  to  resent 
its  dryness.  Trade  of  all  sorts  I  should  dislike, 
though  if  my  dear  guardian  had  not  made  it  so 
needless  for  me  to  think  of  a  commercial  future 
I  should  probably  now  be  buying  and  selling 
something  somewhere.  In  letters  I  should  make 
the  most  pronounced  kind  of  failure,  for  I  should 
never  actually  fail.  I  should  always  be  producing 
some  work  full  of  reflections  from  others.  I  know 
that  the  majority  of  books  are  made  in  this  way. 
A  few  real  geniuses  lead  '  the  mob  of  gentlemen 
who  write  with  ease.'  And  I  don't  like  the  mob 
in  literature.  I  am  an  aristocrat  there,  if  nowhere 
else.  Perhaps  I  have  the  maladie  de  perfection  .  . 
who  knows?  But  it  results  in  apathy,  neverthe 
less." 

"  And  so  you  prefer  politics  ?  " 

"  I  did,  but  I  have  lived  long  enough  in  this 


284  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

country  to  shrink  from  touching  them.  A  man 
who  would  reach  to-day  the  highest  offices  under 
our  government  must  wade  through  slums  and 
cess-pools.  I  don't  see  how  he  can  escape  the 
grossest  soilure.  I  maintain  that  he  scarcely  ever 
does  escape  it.  It  is  horrible  to  think  of  the  things 
our  most  trusted  statesmen  must  have  heard  and 
seen !  And  to  hear  and  see  them  makes  a  share 
in  their  scurrility  almost  unavoidable.  I  came  to 
America  with  such  fine  expectations  in  that  way, 
but  now  they  are  all  dreary  disappointments.  . 
Casimir  Laprade  is  an  enviable  fellow.  He  truly 
has  all  the  world  before  him.  He  has  the  gifts 
of  a  great  painter,  and  no  wayward  inclination  to 
misuse  them.  I  sometimes  think  that  he  has  all 
the  imagination  in  painting  that  Poe  had  as  a 
writer.  But  he  is  a  Poe  with  a  morale,  a  whole 
some  and  unerratic  method  —  a  splendid  though 
mystical  sanity,  in  short.  You  have  heard  me 
speak  of  Casimir  before.  We  are  devoted  friends. 
He  is  with  us  now  at  Rockside ;  perhaps  Mrs. 
Dorian  told  you." 

"  Yes.  She  mentioned  that  he  had  come  with 
you.  I  should  like  to  see  some  of  his  painting." 

"It  would  give  us  all  great  pleasure  if  you 
would  visit  his  studio." 

"  Thanks,"  she  said. 

"You  will  leave  your  father  for  an  hour  or 
two,  some  day,  will  you  not?"  I  continued. 
"  Rockside  is  so  near." 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  285 

She  did  not  answer,  though  I  waited  several 
moments  for  her  to  do  so.  And  then  I  again  said, 
breaking  the  silence : 

"  I  shall  not  feel  that  you  want  really  to  be 
friends  with  me  unless  you  consent.  That  will 
put  the  final  valued  touch  upon  our  reconcilia 
tion." 

She  stopped  her  needle  and  looked  at  me  with  a 
faint,  arch  smile.  "  You  told  me  that  you  repented, 
yesterday." 

"  I  told  you  the  truth." 

She  shook  her  head,  still  smiling.  "  You  for 
get.  Repentance  does  not  exact  conditions ;  it 
receives  them." 

"  Frankly,"  I  said,  changing  my  tone,  "  do  you 
not  think  I  had  some  cause  for  grievance  that 
afternoon  on  the  Bois?  Remember  that  I  con 
stantly  witnessed  Foulke  Dorian's  attentions  to 
you.  He  had  followed  you  from  England  to 
France,  and  "  — 

"  He  was  privileged  to  cross  the  Channel  when 
he  chose,"  she  broke  in,  her  color  altering.  "  I 
did  not  encourage  him  to  make  the  voyage." 

"  People  said  that  you  did." 

u  What  will  people  not  say?  " 

"  But  he  returned  to  America  a  little  while  after 
you  returned." 

She  gave  her  head  a  slight  impatient  toss. 
"  You  must  recollect  that  the  Atlantic  is  a  com 
mon  thoroughfare." 


286  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

I  saw  that  she  was  annoyed ;  the  sarcasm  had 
left  her  lips  with  no  mildness  of  accent.  But  I 
had  fanned  the  spark  that  was  so  ready  to  turn  a 
flame ;  my  reticence  had  slipped  its  fetter ;  in  an 
instant  more  I  felt  myself  urged  to  say  : 

"  Of  course  you  cannot  prevent  him  caring 
about  you.  But  do  you  let  him  visit  you  now? 
Have  you  given  him  to  understand  that  you  will 
not  become  his  wife  ?  " 

I  leaned  forward  as  I  spoke.  She  must  have 
seen  that  my  eagerness  was  not  only  passionate, 
but  that  I  was  trying  to  keep  it  within  bounds. 
If  the  stronger  gleam  in  her  eyes  came  from  dis 
pleasure,  it  quickly  faded. 

"I  have  given  him  to  understand  that,"  she 
said,  very  slowly  and  meaningly.  "And  more 
than  once.  He  does  not  visit  me.  There  are 
reasons  apart  from  the  refusal  I  just  mentioned." 

"  Reasons  ?  " 

"  Papa  does  not  like  him  — has  never  liked  him. 
He  has  not  told  me  why,  but  I  gained  some 
knowledge  of  the  truth  from  other  sources.  He 
thinks  that  Mr.  Dorian  behaved  in  an  ungentle- 
manlike  way  to  a  friend  of  his.  Papa  is  very  punc 
tilious  ;  the  affair  concerned  a  debt  of  honor,  I 
believe  —  a  bet  made  at  the  Chantilly  races.  He 
learned  the  facts  just  before  we  went  to  Austria. 
He  has  requested  me  not  to  receive  Mr.  Dorian 
hereafter.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  has  forbidden 
it  —  but  with  me  requesting  and  forbidding  are 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  287 

the  same.  There,  that  is  all.  .  .  Now  let  us  talk 
of  something  pleasanter,  if  you  will.  Describe 
to  me  some  of  Monsieur  Laprade's  wonderful  pic 
tures.  That  will  be  the  next  best  thing  to  seeing 
them  for  myself."  .  .  . 

I  left  her  that  day  in  a  state  of  buoyancy  and 
exaltation.  And  for  many  days  afterward  I  talked 
with  her  father  and  herself  inside  the  cottage,  sat 
with  her  on  the  veranda,  strolled  with  her  on  the 
lawn  or  watched  with  her  the  restless  water  as 
it  lapped  and  plashed  on  the  jagged  rocks.  In  a 
hundred  ways  I  must  have  let  her  plainly  guess 
my  unchanged  love,  but  by  degrees  I  had  grown 
to  await  her  bidding  for  its  full  avowal  and  to 
find  the  thrall  less  irksome  because  it  was  so  coyly 
and  charmingly  imposed.  The  Colonel's  health 
continued  feeble,  and  he  would  sometimes  pass 
the  whole  day  in  his  own  apartment.  On  this 
account  Ada  delayed  her  little  expedition  to 
Rockside,  short  as  was  the  distance  between  our 
two  homes.  At  last,  however,  she  came  to  us. 
Casimir  not  only  showed  her  his  pictures,  but 
made  it  plain  that  her  beauty  and  intelligence  had 
won  him  as  an  admirer.  She,  on  her  own  side, 
expressed  delight  in  his  painting,  though  now  and 
then  she  would  venture  upon  a  criticism  delivered 
with  modesty  but  firmness. 

"  Mademoiselle  has  evidently  studied  art,"  he 
said,  as  we  stood,  a  group  of  four,  in  front  of  what 
was  perhaps  his  most  ambitious  canvas.  He  spoke 


288  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

with  his  accustomed  suavity,  but  I  could  detect 
behind  it  that  respectful  attention  which  no  mere 
politeness  could  imply. 

"I  have  studied  much  less  than  I  have  observed," 
was  her  answer.  "  But  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am 
unwarrantably  bold  in  passing  any  judgment  what 
ever  upon  your  work,  Monsieur  Laprade.  It  all 
strikes  me  as  astonishingly  brilliant  and  novel. 
Mr.  Claud  has  been  preparing  me  for  a  disappoint 
ment,"  she  added,  with  a  glance  in  my  direction. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  let  us  know  the  worst ! " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorian,  in  her  most  rattling  vein. 
"  Till  this  moment  I  had  believed  that  Otho  and 
I  were  both  pledged  to  an  unalterable  approval  of 
whatever  Casimlr  did.  If  Otho  has  presumed  to 
desert  unqualified  praise  for  any  kind  of  criticism, 
I  beg  that  you  will  expose  his  horrible  treachery." 

"  I  mean  only  that  he  praised  Monsieur  Laprade 
without  the  least  reserve,"  said  Ada,  laughing, 
"  and  in  that  way  he  made  me  tremble  for  the 
fulfilment  of  my  own  expectations." 

"Ah,"  declared  my  guardian,  "then  he  has  been 
loyal,  after  all,  and  I  apologize  to  him  for  my  base 
suspicions." 

"Do  you  dread  critics?"  asked  our  visitor  of 
Casimir. 

He  appeared  to  muse  for  a  moment,  and  his 
luminous  eyes  took  that  thoughtful  look  which 
always  gave  so  magical  a  charm  to  his  fair,  poetic, 
picturesque  face. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  289 

"  I  often  think  there  is  only  one  just  critic,"  he 
said  gravely  and  slowly.  "  I  mean  .  .  .  Death. 
He  is  apt  to  write  of  us  in  very  black  ink  on  very 
white  paper;  but  he  tells  the  truth  about  us  in 
the  end." 

"  How  dreadful  of  you,  Casimir ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Dorian.  "  And  yet  how  charming !  You  have 
given  me  one  of  my  impressions.  Tiens.  .  It  will 
do  for  a  future  picture  by  yourself.  I  imagine  a 
skeleton,  with  a  notebook  in  its  bony  hand,  going 
through  the  galleries  of  the  Louvre  and  alternately 
grinning  or  scowling." 

"  Ah,  madame,"  I  said,  "  it  is  we  who  represent 
the  skeleton  of  which  you  speak.  We  are  poster 
ity  and  we  are  forever  passing  judgments  upon  the 
works  of  the  dead.  I  think  that  in  the  main  Casi 
mir  is  right.  Every  genius  or  every  pretender 
finally  gets  his  due  in  just  that  fashion."  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  find  my  friend's  embodied  dreams  too 
sombre  ?  "  I  asked  of  Ada,  as  we  walked  toward 
the  cottage  together,  about  an  hour  later.  "  Do 
you  think  that  like  the  painter  of  whom  Shelley 
sang  he  dips  his  pencil  too  deeply  in  the  hues  of 
earthquake  and  eclipse  ?  " 

"  He  is  gloomy,  beyond  a  doubt,"  she  answered, 
"  but  it  is  the  gloom  of  life  itself  and  not  a  mere 
morbid  craving  after  what  is  sinister  and  repellent. 
That  picture,  for  example,  which  he  calls  simply 
'  The  Choice,'  and  in  which  we  see  the  dark  angel, 
with  poppies  on  his  brow,  repulsing  an  old  grief- 


290  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

stricken  woman  while  he  has  flung  a  strong  arm 
about  the  unwilling  shape  of  a  delicate,  beautiful 
young  girl  —  how  true  that  is,  and  how  exempt 
from  the  least  cynicism  !  It  is  a  sort  of  universal 
allegory."  She  paused  here,  and  I  thought  she 
had  finished  speaking,  when  her  voice  presently 
resumed :  "  Still,  for  such  a  man  as  he  I  should 
fancy  that  there  might  be  peril  hereafter." 

"  Peril  ?  "  I  said,  surprisedly. 

"  In  the  artistic  sense  —  yes.  He  loves  shadows 
so  much.  You  likened  him  to  Poe,  and  with  good 
cause,  I  think.  But  he  is  a  sort  of  Poe  touched 
with  sunshine.  And  yet,  if  some  great  grief  or 
disaster  came  to  him,  would  not  the  sunshine  die 
out  of  all  that  he  did  ?  Might  not  his  work  turn 
grim  and  even  malign  ?  I  may  be  wrong,  yet  this 
thought  struck  me  as  I  stood  there  in  his  studio, 
and  watched  not  only  his  paintings,  but  his  fine, 
sensitive,  mobile  face." 

"  I  should  not  wonder  at  the  result  which  you 
half  prophesy,"  I  returned  ;  "  and  yet  Casimir  will 
no  doubt  escape  it.  The  great  grief  will  be 
spared  him,  I  should  say.  He  loves  his  art  pas 
sionately,  and  will  never  fall  in  love  with  any  less 
ethereal  mistress.  There  lies  his  safeguard." 

"  Sorrow  has  other  modes  of  reaching  us." 

"  I  used  to  think  so.  Just  now  I  feel  as  if  she 
had  only  one." 

"  You  don't  mean  what  you  say,"  she  reproved, 
with  a  very  serious  glance  up  into  my  face.  Still, 


TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  291 

I  somehow  did  not  believe  that  my  words  offended 
her.  After  a  little  silence  she  said :  "  He  is  a 
Parisian  by  birth,  is  he  not,  this  Cashuir  Laprade?" 

"  Yes.  He  is  the  only  child  of  Mrs.  Dorian's 
sister." 

"And  you.  .  .  You  are  a  Belgian?  You  were 
born  in  Brussels  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"It  is  a  charming  city,  Brussels;  it  is  a  little 
clean,  white,  brilliant  Paris.  I  spent  such  a  happy 
autumn  there  when  I  was  a  mere  girl.  I  was 
never  tired  of  attending  service  in  that  stately, 
drowsy  old  Sainte  Gudule,  with  its  magnificent 
stained  glass  windows,  and  its  buried  kings  and 
queens  in  their  solemn  tombs.  I  wonder  it  did 
not  turn  me  into  a  Catholic.  Poor  mamma,  I 
remember,  grew  frightened  lest  it  would.  .  .  .  Ah, 
you  had  a  most  beautiful  birthplace !  You  were 
left  an  orphan  there,  were  you  not,  at  quite  an 
early  age  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  recollect  hearing  it.  Someone  in  Paris  told 
me,  I  think.  And  your  mother  was  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Dorian,  though  not  related  to  her  ?  " 

"  Not  related  .  .  .  no." 

"It  must  have  been  very  sad."  She  spoke  ten 
derly  ;  she  had  used  her  gentlest  tones  throughout 
all  these  latter  sentences,  with  not  a  suggestion  of 
idle  inquisitiveness  and  with  much  compassionate 
delicacy. 


292  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  Sad  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  I  mean  having  to  leave  your  native  land  and 
come  all  alone  across  that  huge  waste  of  ocean." 

"  It  .was  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Dorian  to  let  me 
come."  I  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say.  My 
own  words  sounded  harsh  and  curt  to  me.  All 
this  was  pure  torment.  I  had  dreaded  it  so  long. 
The  lies  rang  so  despicably  in  my  ears  as  I  uttered 
them  !  And  yet  how  could  I  avoid  them  ?  Only 
in  one  way.  Only  by  telling  her  that  I  was  the 
son  of  a  loathed  criminal. 

But  my  torture  had  not  ended.  "  Will  you 
think  it  strange,"  she  pursued,  "if  I  ask  you 
something  about  your  family  ?  I  am  fond  of  old 
family  records,  and  especially  foreign  ones.  Now, 
I  suppose  you  came  of  a  long-descended  race, 
which"- 

"  You  forget,"  I  broke  in,  with  a  laugh  that 
made  her  start,  it  was  so  chill  and  hard,  "  how 
republican  a  distaste  I  have  acquired  for  all  pre 
rogatives  and  mementos  of  that  patrician  sort. 
I  believe  my  family  were  very  honest  folk,  edu 
cated,  refined,  but  not  noble  in  the  least  degree. 
That  is  all  I  know  or  care  to  know." 

"  I  have  displeased  you,"  she  said,  raising  her 
brows  in  surprise. 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  hurried,  forcing  from  myself  a 
much  more  natural  laugh.  We  had  by  this  time 
reached  her  gateway.  "  I  must  leave  you  here," 
I  continued,  putting  out  my  hand  as  we  both 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  293 

paused.  "  I  promised  to  give  Casimir  a  sitting 
for  my  portrait  this  afternoon.  He  complains 
that  it  will  not  be  begun  till  the  summer  is 
ended."  .  .  . 

But  I  gave  Casimir  no  sitting  that  day.  I 
roamed  off  into  country  roads  and  by-paths  for 
hours,  and  did  not  return  to  Rockside  until  a  short 
time  before  dinner. 

Hypocrisy  had  always  been  one  of  my  hatreds. 
I  meant  to  marry  this  woman  if  it  were  possible, 
and  I  had  now  a  secure  belief  that  she  would  soon 
plight  with  me  a  lasting  troth.  If  I  married  her 
under  my  present  name,  would  not  the  deception 
be  wholly  unjustified  ?  From  all  points  of  purely 
honorable  feeling,  yes.  And  yet  to  the  world  I 
was  Otho  Claud,  not  Otho  Clauss,  and  had  been 
so  for  years.  I  had  reason  to  expect,  moreover, 
that  if  my  true  origin  were  revealed  she  would 
turn  from  me.  She  might  love  me,  but  she  would 
turn  from  me.  Her  pride  had  cast  her  in  that 
mould ;  it  was  a  pride  that  might  even  alter  her 
love.  But  for  this  agonizing  consideration  I  would 
willingly  tell  her  all ;  no  sense  of  personal  shame 
would  now  restrain  me.  But  to  tell  her  and 
witness  the  estranging,  sundering  result !  That 
made  a  coward  of  me,  and  that  alone.  I  dared 
not  risk  the  hazard  of  losing  her.  It  would  be 
easier  to  cut  off  my  right  hand^  or  to  hold  it  in  a 
destroying  flame.  The  worst  conceivable  suffer 
ing  or  calamity  would  be  preferable.  And  after 


294  TIIE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

all,  was  the  deception  in  any  tangible  manner  a 
wrong  to  her?  Would  not  Casimir  counsel  it? 
Would  not  Mrs.  Dorian  insist  upon  and  implore 
its  continuance  ?  Thousands  of  men  placed  as  I 
was  then  placed  would  have  regarded  what  now 
rose  before  me  in  the  stern  lines  of  a  duty  as  the 
mere  shadow  of  one  and  no  more.  There  was 
hardly  a  possibility  of  my  real  name  ever  trans 
piring.  My  guardian  only  waited  my  word  to 
transfer  a  large  amount  of  property  before  her 
death  into  my  keeping.  I  would  be  independent, 
and  in  all  eyes  the  possessor  of  an  unblemished 
name  when  I  stood  at  the  altar  with  Ada  Grarn- 
ercey.  And  through  the  rest  of  my  life  discovery 
was  equally  certain  not  to  overtake  me. 

Before  re-entering  the  grounds  of  Rockside  I 
had  made  my  resolve.  I  would  keep  silent.  The 
struggle  —  and  there  had  been  a  bitter  struggle  — 
was  now  past.  I  conceded  the  imposture  to  my 
own  conscience,  but  its  commission  I  had  likewise 
declared  to  be  incited  by  copious  excuse,  defended 
by  ample  palliative  and  extenuation. 

The  lawns  of  Rockside,  trim  and  velvety,  sloped 
shoreward  in  sweet,  fresh  curves  as  the  slant  light 
of  early  evening  struck  them.  I  was  not  yet 
wholly  calm,  and  perhaps  on  this  account  I  sought 
the  rocks  before  passing  into  the  house.  Once 
among  their  ledges  and  crevices,  now  so  familiar 
both  to  sight  and  tread,  I  moved  on  for  some  dis 
tance  in  the  direction  of  the  Gramerceys'  cottage. 


TUE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  295 

Suddenly  I  stood  quite  still.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  turning  to  stone  like  the  rocks  them 
selves.  Through  an  opening  in  some  trees  that 
drooped  lower  than  the  rest,  I  had  gained  a  view 
of  that  part  of  the  shore  where  Ada  and  I  had 
first  met  after  so  many  months  of  separation. 

She  was  there  now.  A  man  was  at  her  side. 
They  were  speaking  together.  I  saw  him  take 
her  hand,  bend  over  it  and  kiss  it.  She  drew  her 
hand  away,  but  with  no  sign  of  anger.  Then  she 
went  on  speaking,  though  I  could  not  hear  what 
she  said ;  I  was  too  far  away  for  that. 

I  had  clearly  recognized  the  man  He  was 
Foulke  Dorian. 

My  heart  began  to  beat  with  great  throbs.  My 
limbs  grew  so  weak  that  I  sank  down,  and  at  the 
same  moment  my  head  whirled  dizzily.  But  I 
soon  rose  again,  peering  at  once  through  the 
branches. 

Neither  he  nor  she  was  there.  Both  had  van 
ished.  Had  it  been  a  horrid  illusion?  Had  my 
senses  tricked  me?  Could  it  all  have  been 
actual  ? 


296  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 


XIII. 

THIS  doubt  was  only  a  proof  of  my  mental 
turmoil.  To  think  soberly  would  have  been  to 
scoff  it.  But  I  could  not  think  soberly.  If  the 
ghost  of  someone  whom  I  knew  to  be  dead  had 
appeared  before  me  and  then  melted  away,  my 
belief  that  hallucination  had  victimized  me  might 
have  been  much  less  positive  than  now. 

But  of  course  the  intense  unexpectedness  of  what 
I  had  seen  explained  this  dubious  mood,  necessarily 
transient.  Opposite  conviction  ensued,  and  with 
but  too  sharp  a  haste.  I  did  not  need,  a  little 
later,  to  pick  from  that  very  spot  where  I  had 
witnessed  Ada  Gramercey  in  converse  with  Dorian 
a  long  white  thread  glove  such  as  she  had  worn 
that  very  day,  for  my  certainty  of  the  whole  pro 
ceeding  to  be  verified.  As  I  crushed  the  soft  sub 
stance  of  the  glove  between  my  fingers  and  palm, 
there  must  have  been  a  fierceness  in  that  slighter 
act  akin  to  the  force  that  might  go  with  one  dark 
and  violent.  I  lifted  my  hand  to  my  forehead  and 
found  it  beaded  with  cold  drops  of  sweat.  The 
thought  distinctly  flashed  through  my  brain  that  if 
the  man  whom  I  had  just  seen  were  then  within 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  297 

my  reach  I  would  kill  him.  Murder  was  in  each 
breath  I  drew,  and  I  think  it  made  my  face  white 
and  dilated  my  eyes.  I  even  sprang  up  the  stone 
steps,  in  another  moment,  and  swept  with  a  rapid 
gaze  the  tract  of  lawn  about  the  cottage.  It  was 
quite  empty,  as  I  stood  there  among  the  trees, 
gasping  and  clutching  the  glove.  I  was  mad,  as 
men  are  nearly  always  when  they  slay.  The  spells 
and  curses  that  witches  were  said  to  cast  in  old 
times  may  have  sprung,  like  so  much  that  is 
laughed  at  as  fable  to-day,  from  a  germ  of  solid 
fact.  Long  ago  my  mother,  with  either  a  strange 
prescience  of  what  would  befall  me,  or  with  only 
the  dreading  foresight  engendered  by  deep  love, 
had  named  this  frenzy  a  curse.  It  was  now  like  a 
sudden  vital  change  of  my  whole  nature.  Every 
high  and  sane  faculty  became  a  turgid  blur.  Rea 
son  was  blotted  out,  and  prudence,  humanity,  pity, 
self-esteem,  were  whirled  away  as  the  wind  whirls 
a  ring  of  dust.  Manhood  sank  and  faded ;  the 
mere  gross  animal  rage  that  sets  a  fang  in  flesh 
took  its  place.  To  live  was  to  thirst  for  redress  of 
wrong,  and  burn  with  a  sense  of  unparalleled  out 
rage.  So  must  my  father  have  felt  on  that  horrible 
morning.  If  his  frantic  spirit  had  driven  mine 
from  its  body  and  entered  there  instead,  I  could 
not  have  more  fatally  resembled  him  than  during 
that  distracted  interval. 

Some  dim  conception  of  this  likeness  must  have 
forced  itself  into  my  brain,  and  with  abrupt  saving 


298  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

effect.  For  the  revulsion  suddenly  came,  and 
it  afterward  seemed  that  no  other  influence  had 
wrought  it.  I  remembered  that  I  was  his  son,  and 
without  one  wild  detail  missing,  the  whole  picture 
of  his  crime,  lit  as  from  infernal  fires,  loomed 
ghastly  upon  my  recollection.  In  an  instant  the 
murderous  mood  ended.  I  was  rational,  self-con 
trolled,  a  being  of  judgment,  intellect,  temperance. 
I  shuddered  as  I  descended  the  steps  leading  to 
the  shore.  A  frightful  question  was  thrilling 
me :  What  might  have  happened  if  that  tyranny 
of  blind,  headlong  trance  had  lasted  instead  of 
ceasing?  .  .  . 

It  was  night  when  I  passed  indoors.  Dinner 
had  been  served  several  hours  ago.  Mrs.  Dorian 
met  me  in  the  hall  with  an  anxious  face.  "  My 
dear  Otho,"  she  said,  "  we  did  not  know  what  had 
become  of  you.  But  of  course  you  dined  with  the 
Gramerceys.  I  really  can't  think  what  made  me 
worried  about  you.  It  was  absurd,  of  course. 
Casimir,  who  would  rise  with  the  lark  if  there 
were  such  things  as  larks  in  Westchester  County, 
has  gone  to  bed.  I  have  been  all  alone  in  the 
sitting-room  for  quite  an  age,  and  this  stupid 
novel,  the  last  of  my  lot  from  town,  would  not  let 
me  read  it,  so  I  became  nervous,  hearing  little 
sounds  everywhere.  It  is  wonderful  how  dull  a 
French  novel  gets  when  it  is  written  to  exploiter 
the  beauties  of  virtue.  I  think  it  must  have  been 
the  flapping  of  that  great  moth  in  the  lamp  that 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  299 

made  me  nervous.  What  a  beautiful  moth,  by  the 
way  !  It  gives  me  an  impression  ;  it  has  such  an 
evil,  funeste  look,  with  its  big  spotted  wings ;  it 
might  be  a  bad  spirit  in  disguise.  And  it  has 
nearly  put  out  the  lamp,  poor  horrid  creature.  I 
can  scarcely  see  you  in  this  dimness." 

I  was  glad  of  that.    "  I  will  go  up  stairs,  madame, 
if  you  will  permit,"  I  said.    "  I  am  a  little  unwell." 
"  Unwell,  Otho  ?    You  don't  mean  that  Ada  "  — 
"I  mean  nothing  about  Ada,"  I  broke  in,  with 
a  laugh  of  so  much   neatly  counterfeited   mirth 
that  it  half  re-assured  my  hearer.     "  There  is  noth 
ing    wrong.  ...  I    am    somewhat    tired.      Pray 
excuse  me.     Shall  I  ring  for  the  servants  to  close 
the  house?" 

"  No,"  she  said.    "  But  Otho  .  .  you  are  sure  ?  " 
"  Quite  sure,"  I  said,  repeating  my  laugh,  and 
with  more  skill  than  before. 

I  passed  that  night  sleeplessly,  alone  with  my 
sorrow.  I  did  not  doubt  that  Ada  Gramercey  had 
been  faithless  and  treacherous  to  me.  Had  not  her 
own  words  proved  it  ?  Every  sentence  that  she 
had  spoken  with  reference  to  Foulke  Dorian  was 
revived  keenly  in  my  memory.  What  had  all 
this  been  but  calculated  double-dealing  ?  As  for 
the  motive,  I  could  ascribe  it  to  nothing  except 
relentless  coquetry.  Other  women  had  played 
pitilessly  like  this  with  men  before  now.  That  I 
had  ranked  her  incapable  of  such  hypocrisy  was 
no  argument  against  her  having  practised  it.  Other 


300  TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

men  had  been  similarly  deceived.  Besides,  she 
had  never  accepted  my  love.  It  had  been  urged 
upon  her  in  Paris,  and  she  had  virtually  refused  it. 
Here  she  had  permitted  and  smiled  upon  my  devo 
tions,  but  no  more.  If  she  had  spoken  untruly 
with  regard  to  Foulke  Dorian  it  was  her  own 
affair.  I  had  received  no  right  to  upbraid  her  for 
broken  faith.  There  had  never  been  any  question 
of  faith  or  unfaith  between  us ;  there  had  been 
sentiment,  congeniality,  intimacy,  social  relaxation, 
and  nothing  more.  I  had  hoped  for  much,  but  the 
span  of  hope  has  many  airy  cubits.  In  this  case 
had  it  not  towered  vastly  above  fulfilment  ? 

"  You  do  not  look  yourself,"  said  Casimir  to  me 
the  next  morning,  as  he  and  I  met.  "  I  hope, 
dear  Otho,  that  you  are  not  going  to  be  ill.  What 
is  this  American  disease  that  they  call  malaria  ? 
Owen,  the  head  gardener,  tells  me  that  it  rages, 
hereabouts,  aad  that  his  poor  wife  is  in  an  ague 
with  it  at  least  twice  every  week." 

"  I  suppose  Owen  is  entitled  to  credence,"  I 
replied,  "  and  I  have  heard  that  malaria  is  as  wide 
an  evil  in  this  remarkable  country  as  legislative 
bribery  or  municipal  theft.  But  I  don't  think  it 
has  yet  claimed  me,  Casimir.  .  I  slept  rather  ill 
and  awoke  with  a  slight  headache  .  .  that  is  all. 
I  will  try  a  walk  in  the  morning  air.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  you  were  abroad  hours  ago,  so  I  will 
not  ask  you  to  go  with  me." 

I  should  indeed  have  been  nonplussed  if  he  had 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  801 

proposed  to  go.  For  I  did  not  mean  that  my 
walk  should  be  a  long  one.  It  would  terminate 
at  the  Gramerceys'  cottage.  The  glove  which  I 
had  found  yesterday  was  on  my  person.  I  in 
tended  to  return  it  to  its  owner.  Not  in  silence, 
yet  not  in  stormy  accusation.  I  was  prepared  to 
be  thoroughly  calm.  My  turbulence  was  all  laid 
at  rest,  and  only  a  dull,  steadfast,  persistent  heart 
ache  held  its  place. 

I  took  the  inland  course  to  the  cottage ;  it  may 
have  been  that  I  had  some  lurking  dread  lest  I 
should  see,  if  I  went  by  the  shore,  a  repetition  of 
last  evening's  occurrence.  The  very  quiet  and 
serenity'  of  the  little  simple  domain  mocked  me 
with  my  own  wretchedness  as  I  passed  round  to 
the  seaward-fronting  veranda.  A  few  short  hours 
ago  I  had  been  so  happy  here,  and  now  I  had  come 
for  a  farewell  meeting  with  her  whom  to  distrust 
and  despise  was,  alas,  not  to  cease  from  loving! 
I  had  already  thought  of  a  speedy  departure  for 
Europe,  whither  in  the  course  of  a  little  time  my 
guardian  and  my  sole  dear  friend  might  both  join 
me. 

A  minute  or  two  after  I  had  rung  the  bell  at 
the  open  entrance  I  saw  her  emerge  from  the  little 
sitting-room  that  adjoined  the  hall.  She  slowly 
advanced  to  where  I  waited.  She  was  clad  in  her 
customary  white  dress,  and  she  had  a  few  garden- 
flowers  in  her  bosom.  Her  beauty  pierced  me 
with  pain.  I  took  her  hand  because  she  offered  it 


302  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

to  me,  but  I  did  so  with  a  strange  thrill  of  despair, 
as  though  realizing  it  was  for  the  last  time  on  this 
side  of  the  grave  ! 

She  appeared  to  notice  nothing  unusual  in  my 
face  or  bearing.  She  spoke  of  the  fine  weather, 
going  forward  almost  to  the  edge  of  the  veranda, 
and  then  returning  in  my  direction  with  a  smile 
and  a  slight  shiver. 

"It  is  a  little  cool  here,  is  it  not?"  she  said. 
"  Shall  we  go  into  the  sitting-room  ?  " 

As  we  passed  thither  I  asked  about  her  father, 
tranquilly  enough.  She  told  me  that  he  was 
sleeping  when  she  had  last  left  him.  "  He  spends 
so  much  time  in  sleep,"  she  continued,  with  a  faint 
sigh,  while  sinking  into  a  chair,  "that  if  one 
judges  of  how  much  better  or  worse  he  is  only 
by  his  wakeful  hours,  one  is  often  in  doubt.  I 
hope  your  portrait  has  progressed  favorably,  since 
yesterday  ?  " 

I  had  seated  myself  before  I  answered  :  "  How 
did  it  strike  you  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Oh,  as  a  mere  sketch." 

"  But  a  true  one  ?  " 

"A  little  ideal,  if  you  will  pardon  me.  Not 
that  I  do  not  like  a  portrait  which  shows  us  at 
our  very  best.  That  is  the  prerogative  of  portrait- 
painting.  It  is  charming  to  have  a  friend  trans 
mit  our  image  to  canvas,  as  Monsieur  Laprade  is 
doing  in  your  case." 

"Why?" 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  303 

"  Because  the  friend  becomes  a  gentle  eulogist, 
and  if  he  be  gifted,  and  faithful  to  the  require 
ments  of  his  art,  he  may  surprise  those  who  know 
us  well  by  showing  them  how  careless  has  been 
their  everyday  estimate." 

"  Then  you  think  that  people  who  like  us  are 
apt  to  deal  in  these  unjust  opinions  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  returned  thoughtfully.  "  Monsieur 
Laprade  said  that  death  was  a  critic.  Is  he  not 
also  in  a  certain  way  a  portrait-painter?  We  die, 
and  we  are  at  once  recollected  in  a  new  light,  as 
it  were.  Traits  and  qualities  are  remembered  and 
appreciated  that  were  forgotten  or  neglected  in  us 
before." 

I  saw  my  opportunity  then,  and  quietly  took  it. 
"  But  while  we  live  we  are  so  apt  to  afford  sad 
proofs  of  mastering  and  fruitful  faults." 

She  looked  at  me  with  some  surprise  for  a 
moment.  "  You  say  that  very  dejectedly.  Are 
you  distrait  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  am  unhappy." 

Her  face  grew  serious.  "  Something  has  hap 
pened  at  home  ?  "  she  murmured. 

"  No  ;  not  at  home." 

"  You  have  had  bad  news  from  abroad  ?  " 

"•  Not  from  so  far  away."  I  drew  out  the  glove 
as  I  spoke.  "  You  dropped  this  on  the  rocks  yes 
terday  —  in  the  afternoon,  I  think.  It  is  yours,  is 
it  not?" 

She  took  the  glove.    "  Yes ;  it  is  mine.    Thanks." 


304  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

There  was  not  a  sign  of  embarrassment  in  her 
reply. 

"  Very  possibly  you  lost  it  while  you  were  there 
with  Foulke  Dorian,"  I  went  on. 

She  gave  a  start  then,  and  looked  at  me  fixedly. 
But  her  color  did  not  alter  in  the  least.  "You 
saw  me  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  saw  you  —  and  him."  My  voice  must 
have  trembled  now.  "  I  saw  him  take  your  hand 
and  kiss  it.  I  —  I  was  not  spying  upon  you  — 
please  be  sure  of  that." 

"  I  did  not  imagine  that  you  were,"  she  an 
swered,  with  immediate  haughtiness.  "  You  are 
surely  above  any  such  action." 

"  Ah,  don't  take  that  for  granted  !  "  I  said,  with 
a  rush  of  bitterness,  as  I  rose.  "  To  anyone  who 
had  deceived  me  as  you  had  done  I  might  have 
paid  guile  for  guile." 

Her  brow  clouded,  and  she  bit  her  lip.  I  felt 
her  anger  to  be  unwarrantable,  shameless ;  I  could 
have  born  the  most  artful  feigning  of  innocence 
better. 

"You  were  never  once  deceived  by  me!"  she 
exclaimed,  with  indignation.  And  then,  abruptly, 
while  her  eyes  dwelt  upon  my  face,  an  entire 
change  swept  over  her.  She  rose  and  regarded 
me  with  a  sorrowful  amazement.  "If  you  saw 
that  man  kiss  my  hand,"  she  said,  "  you  must  also 
have  seen  that  I  gave  him  no  incentive  to  do  so. 
His  coming  to  this  place  has  been  a  source  of  dis- 


TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  305 

tress  to  me.  He  had  learned  of  that  path  leading 
from  the  village  to  the  rocks ;  probably  the  boy 
who  had  brought  me  his  urgent  note  but  a  short 
time  before,  begging  that  I  should  meet  him,  had 
told  him  of  it.  He  has  possessed  himself  of  several 
large  mortgages  once  owned  by  my  father ;  he 
wished  to  return  these  for  a  merely  nominal  sum  ; 
he  wanted  me  to  arrange  a  deception  by  means  of 
which  my  father  would  believe  himself  almost  re- 
enriched  through  a  stroke  of  pure  good  fortune. 
Papa  was  to  be  made  greatly  his  debtor,  yet  never 
to  know  this.  The  proposal  was  one  which  he 
begged  me  earnestly  to  accept,  and  which  I  could 
not  but  heed  with  gracious  consideration,  although 
I  promptly  refused  it.  I  meant  to  keep  the  whole 
affair  a  secret,  and  not  even  to  tell  my  father  of 
its  occurrence.  If  this  be  guile,  then  I  have 
employed  it." 

Perhaps  she  would  have  spoken  further ;  I  can 
not  say.  My  own  contrition  broke  all  bounds, 
here,  and  I  hurried  to  her  side,  in  a  passion  of  joy 
and  self-reproach. 

"  Can  you  ever  forgive  me  ?  "  I  cried.  "  I  have 
been  the  maddest  of  fools !  You  are  truth  and 
honor  itself,  and  yet  I  seized  the  first  little  chance 
to  wrong,  to  distrust  you  !  But  it  is  the  fault  of 
my  love  —  that  only!  Oh,  Ada,  if  you  had  let 
me  really  believe  in  your  love,  all  might  have 
been  different!  But  you  have  kept  me  forever 
at  a  distance.  You  see,  I  leap  over  that  distance 


306  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

now  —  I  can't  help  it.  I  must  never  look  on  your 
face  again  if  you  do  not  love  me  enough  to  be  my 
wife ! " 

Her  eyes  were  shining  in  tears  as  she  said :  "  I 
do  love  you."  .  .  . 

Late  that  same  afternoon  I  told  both  Casimir  and 
Mrs.  Dorian  that  Ada  Gramercey  had  promised  to 
marry  me.  Both  faces  brightened  as  they  heard 
the  tidings.  My  guardian  kissed  me ;  Casimir 
warmly  grasped  and  pressed  my  hand.  It  was 
several  hours  afterward,  and  while  we  were  alone 
together,  that  Mrs.  Dorian  said : 

u  There  is  no  reason  that  this  should  be  a  long 
engagement,  Otho." 

"  Naturally,"  I  answered,  "  she  wishes  to  pro 
tract  it  on  her  father's  account." 

"  But  he  may  linger  like  this  for  years." 

"Not  years,  I  think.  He  will  either  partially 
recover  or  die.  All  the  physicians  have  told  her 
that." 

"  Did  you  speak  of  .  .  pardon  me  .  .  anything 
so  terrestrial  as  la  question  d  'argent  ?  " 

"  My  dear  madame,"  I  cried,  with  a  laugh  and 
a  blush,  "we  have  spoken  of  nothing  but  our 
mutual  love." 

"Delightful,"  she  approved,  with  a  droll  nod 
of  mock  grimness.  "Just  as  I  imagined.  The 
rest  will  come  soon  enough  ;  it  always  does.  And 
when  it  does  I  want  you  to  feel  that  you  can  talk 
with  perfect  security  of  giving  her  all  that  she 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  307 

once  had.  On  the  day  before  your  marriage,  mon 
fils,  I  want  to  make  over  to  you  a  comfortable 
sum."  She  then  named  the  sum,  and  its  size 
caused  me  to  utter  a  surprised  exclamation. 

"  That  is  too  large,"  I  protested.  "  It  will  dig 
a  decided  hole  in  your  own  fortune." 

"  And  leave  a  solid  wall  to  surround  the  hole," 
she  said  gayly.  "No,  Otho,  I  insist.  I  can't 
marry  you  off  more  than  once,  I  suppose,  and  if 
done  it  shall  be  done  handsomely." 

The  poor  invalid  Colonel  gave  me  his  congratu 
lations  on  the  next  day.  Ada  had  rendered  my 
own  course  an  easy  one ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  no  role  except  that  of  profuse  smiling  and 
cordial  hand-shaking.  Her  father  was  plainly 
pleased  at  our  engagement ;  from  the  first  he  had 
liked  me,  and  knowing  as  he  did  of  my  heirship 
to  Mrs.  Dorian's  wealth  it  would  be  idle  to  imagine 
that  satisfaction  of  a  worldly  sort  did  not  concern 
his  present  feelings.  In  the  days  of  his  health  and 
prosperity  he  might  have  welcomed  a  son-in-law 
with  slight  concern  for  mercenary  endowments ;  but 
now,  with  the  shadow  of  the  end  creeping  slowly 
across  his  few  residual  days,  there  was  little  won 
der  that  his  enfeebled  mind,  conscious  of  its  own 
half-shattered  state,  should  rejoice  in  the  thought 
of  leaving  the  child  whom  he  loved  re-installed 
among  her  old  soft  surroundings. 

I  said  something  of  this  sort  not  long  afterward 
to  Ada  herself,  and  then  added  (since  the  occasion 


308  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

had  an  aptness  which  it  might  hereafter  lack)  the 
precise  words  of  Mrs.  Dorian's  generous  proposi 
tion. 

"  How  devoted  that  woman  has  been  to  you !  " 
she  answered.  "She  must  have  had  the  most 
tender  regard  for  your  mother,  in  the  first  place." 

"  She  had,"  I  replied,  believing  that  I  spoke  the 
truth. 

The  next  three  or  four  weeks  were  loaded  with 
happiness  for  me.  Our  lives  are  like  those  of  cer 
tain  trees ;  they  have  their  periods  of  bleak,  nude 
dearth  when  the  wind  and  sleet  strike  them  ;  their 
rich-clad  hours  of  summer  ;  their  terms  of  autum 
nal  blight  and  omen ;  but  they  have  also  their 
spring  of  dewy  blossoms  and  silvery  song.  It  was 
the  springtime  of  the  soul  with  me.  No  future 
period,  however  benign  fate  might  prove,  would 
be  just  like  this.  I  told  Ada  so,  in  our  many  walks 
and  talks.  "  I  feel  like  a  miser,"  I  said,  "  whose 
precious  gold  is  slipping  through  his  fingers.  In 
all  the  years  of  love  that  I  hope  God  keeps  for  us 
we  shall  never  be  quite  as  we  are  now.  Our  sun 
shine  will  never  be  just  of  the  same  quality.  It 
may  turn  mellower,  and  even  in  a  way  warmer; 
but  now  it  has  a  fine  airy  excellence  that  we  shall 
somehow  miss  hereafter.  Let  us  make  merry  in  it 
while  we  may." 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  rueful  little  smile. 
"  How  can  I  make  merry,"  she  asked,  "  in  the  face 
of  such  a  chilling  prophecy  ?  " 


TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  309 

"  I  did  not  mean  it  to  be  chilling,"  I  declared, 
sorry  for  my  bit  of  sentimentalizing. 

"  But  to  enjoy  perfectly  is  not  to  deal  in  such 
reflection." 

"True  enough.  And  yet  it  seems  to  be  the 
doom  of  all  perfect  joy  that  it  casts  this  shadow. 
Don't  you  remember  reading  of  the  two  lovers 
who  came  to  the  edge  of  the  great  cliff  at  Sor 
rento?  One  of  them  proposed  that  they  should 
both  leap  over  it,  hand  in  hand,  since  the  future 
could  hold  nothing  more  charming  than  the  pres 
ent  was,  and  the  chances  of  a  regretted  change 
were  almost  certain." 

"  But  they  did  not  take  the  leap,"  said  Ada, 
with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  no.  They  preferred  to  accept  the  other 
chances.  We  all  do." 

Her  smile  deepened  to  one  of  mischievous  mean 
ing.  '  I  am  glad  I  did  not  let  you  go  with  papa 
and  me  to  the  Tyrol,"  she  said.  "  You  might  have 
proved  a  dangerous  companion  in  a  mountainous 
country." 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  suggested  the  leap,  it  would  have 
been  the  merest  poetic  posing.  You'd  have  seen 
through  it  in  half  a  minute.  I  could  never  con 
sent  to  lose  you  in  that  way." 

"But  if  we  had  both  leaped  together?" 

"  My  plight  would  have  been  a  pretty  one ! 
Angels  go  straight  to  Heaven,  and  so  I  should 
have  been  left  without  you."  .  . 


310  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

Once  a  real  gloom  crossed  the  brightness  of 
those  blissful  weeks,  and  a  darker  gloom  than  she 
guessed.  We  had  been  speaking  of  old  acquaint 
ances  in  Paris,  of  their  weaknesses,  foibles,  follies 
and  general  characteristics. 

"  Mademoiselle  X made  a  wholly  heartless 

match,"  I  said.  "  She  married  the  Count's  name 
only." 

"  It  was  a  very  distinguished  name." 

"  Ah,  I  remember  .  .  you  believe  in  all  that." 

"I  believe  in  an  unsullied  name — yes." 

"Unsullied?"  .  .  The  word  pricked  me.  "His 
was  hardly  that." 

"  I  know ;  it  was  historic." 

I  laughed  a  little  drearily.  "  He  traced  back 
among  mediaeval  ruffians." 

"But  a  good  many  of  his  ancestors  had  been 
gentlemen." 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  looking  at  her  intently  and 
feeling  the  growth  of  a  restless  annoyance ;  "  if 
I  had  a  name  like  his,  would  you  prefer  it  —  or 
are  you  indifferent  on  such  a  subject?" 

She  answered  my  look,  and  I  saw  a  shade  of 
pique  cross  her  face.  "  Why  ask  me  this  ques 
tion,  Otho?"  she  returned. 

Her  voice  had  a  faintly  harsh  ring. 

"  You  need  not  answer  it,"  I  said.  "  You  have 
already  done  so." 

She  grew  nettled  at  this.  .  "  Really,  you  take  a 
great  deal  for  granted !  " 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  311 

"  Certain  signs  are  conclusive."  .  .  I  kept  silent 
for  some  time  while  she  watched  me.  Then  I 
slowly  continued :  "  You  know  that  I  am  right. 
If  I  were  a  duke,  an  earl,  a  prince,  you  would 
love  me  more  than  you  do  now." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  regarded  me  with 
angry  astonishment.  "  How  can  you  speak  like 
this,  Otho  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  is  trivial !  " 

I  took  both  her  hands  in  mine,  an  instant  later, 
and  gazed  steadily  into  her  face.  "Yes,  Ada,"  I 
said,  "it  was  trivial  —  boyish  —  absurd.  I  admit 
that  it  was !  "  Then,  as  suddenly,  I  dropped  her 
hands.  "  But  .  .  something  made  me  speak  as  I 
did  .  .  I  scarcely  know  what." 

"Your  own  want  of  reason,"  she  replied,  her 
resentment  by  no  means  cooled. 

"  No,"  I  affirmed,  with  a  touch  of  excitement ; 
"it  was  not  that.  It  was  something  else.  .  . 
Stay  :  if  I  were  still  Otho  Claud,  just  as  you  know 
me  now,  and  yet,  if"  — 

I  abruptly  paused.  A  sense  of  whither  my  own 
thoughts  were  carrying  me  had  produced  this 
hesitation. 

"  If,"  she  repeated,  echoing  my  last  word.  "  If 
what,  pray  ?  " 

I  gave  a  brief,  curt  laugh,  and  finished  my 
sentence.  "If  I  bore  some  stigma,  through  .  . 
through  the  misdeeds  of  my  parents  —  if  I  were 
branded,  not  by  my  own  shame  but  theirs  —  would 
you  still  care  for  me,  hold  me  dear,  be  willing  to 
join  your  fate  with  mine  ?  " 


312  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  Stigma  ?  .  .  shame  ?  "  she  again  repeated.  Her 
face  grew  full  of  pain.  "  Oh,  Otho,"  she  burst 
forth,  "why  do  you  even  think  of  any  thing  so 
.  .  so  unwelcome  and  distressing  ?  " 

She  may  not  have  noticed  how  much  paler  I 
had  grown ;  but  I  am  sure  that  my  color  had 
faded.  "  You  abhor  the  idea,"  I  said,  accusingly. 
"But  if  such  a  stigma,  such  a  shame,  rested  upon 
you,  I  should  hold  it  as  less  than  nothing !  " 

"  Ah,  you  say  that !  " 

"I  am  certain  of  it.  Your  father  —  he  might 
be  a  thief,  a  murderer  "  — 

"  Otho ! " 

"  It  is  true  !  "  I  hurried  on  eagerly.  "  No  mat 
ter  for  the  source  you  had  sprung  from ;  provided 
you  still  remained  who  and  what  you  are,  I  should 
count  all  former  circumstances  as  paltry.  You 
would  be  yourself — your  origin  would  not  in  the 
least  concern  me." 

She  made  a  dissatisfied,  rebuking  gesture. 
"  Why  have  you  brought  up  this  question  ? "  she 
appealed.  "  I  am  sure  that  I  said  nothing  to  pro 
voke  it." 

"I  have  brought  it  up  that  I  might  confirm 
my  belief.  You  know  what  that  belief  is;  I  have 
told  you." 

"  If  you  possess  it,  you  should  not  inform  me  of 
it.  To  do  so,  Otho,  is  the  merest  idle  borrowing 
of  trouble." 

I  shook  my  head  stubbornly.     "  You  do  not 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  313 

deny  the  charge.  You  do  not  assure  me  that  it 
is  baseless." 

"  But  no  such  conditions  as  these  exist.  You 
imagine  them." 

"Without  doubt.  .  .  .  Yet  they  might  have 
existed." 

I  thought  she  was  about  to  give  me  an  indignant 
answer.  But  in  another  instant  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  and  her  lip  trembled.  "  Obstinate, 
fanciful  Otho ! "  she  murmured.  "  Well,  then, 
it  would  make  no  difference  —  none  whatever.  I 
should  deplore,  regret,  even  sorrow  that  such  a 
thing  were  true,  but  the  love  I  bear  you  could  not 
alter  because  of  it.  .  .  There !  are  you  satisfied  ? 
or  will  you  still  cruelly  persist  in  tormenting  me?" 

"  No ! "  I  answered  eagerly,  taking  her  in  my 
arms.  "  Oh,  Ada,  I  am  foolish  and  cruel !  For 
give  me !  I  will  never  annoy  you  with  these  aim 
less  suppositions  again ! " 

Still,  for  a  long  time  afterward,  the  remem 
brance  of  her  perplexity  and  hesitation  staid  with 
me.  I  hated  to  recall  these,  just  as  I  hated  my 
own  rashness  in  having  touched  upon  so  perilous 
and  suggestive  a  point.  Hereafter,  I  concluded, 
greater  self-control  and  discretion  must  assuredly 
be  used.  I  must  school  myself  into  guarding 
against  any  outburst  of  this  futile,  profitless  kind. 

September  had  now  begun,  bringing  us  days 
of  hazy  mildness,  with  long,  cool  nights  full  of 
sweet,  augmenting  moonlight.  Possibly  by  con- 


314  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

trast  with  the  dark  events  that  were  soon  fated  to 
follow  it,  this  mellow  autumnal  interval  holds  a 
sweeter  worth.  I  seem  to  hear  the  crickets  and 
katydids  now,  calling  plaintively  and  multitudi- 
nously  through  the  still,  breezeless  air  of  those 
lovely  nights.  But  their  strange  song,  which  car 
ries  for  so  many  ears  a  dirge  over  the  fading  year 
and  the  falling  leaf,  bore  to  me  no  such  mournful 
note.  All  my  life  was  in  one  flush  of  promise  and 
expectancy.  I  might  easily  have  thought  dreary 
thoughts,  if  love  had  not  laid  her  tender  veto  upon 
their  indulgence.  I  might  have  shuddered  at  the 
knowledge  —  now  so  vivid  and  indisputable  —  that 
I  had  been  marked  among  all  humanity  as  they 
are  marked  to  whom  a  dread  disease  has  come  as 
a  bitter  birthright.  I  might  have  reproached  my 
self  for  the  commission  of  a  deceit  which  argument 
and  analysis,  however  acute  and  searching,  could 
not  wholly  justify,  and  which  they  who  were  aware 
of  it  authorized  and  approved  simply  because  of 
their  fondly  blind  affection.  But  I  had  become 
exempt  from  dismal  visitations.  The  perennial 
sorcery  of  the  world  had  me  well  in  its  golden 
meshes.  Painful  introspection  and  solemn  self- 
reproach  were  both  under  the  ban  of  exile.  They 
stood  like  proscribed  guests  beyond  my  lintel.  My 
chamber,  merry  with  lights  and  garlands,  was  no 
place  for  their  grave  shapes  and  hollow  footfalls. 
At  some  future  hour,  when  the  feast  glowed  less 
gayly,  they  might  steal  in  —  unwelcome  and  un- 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  315 

bidden.  But  now  they  must  remain  without, 
where  the  sound  of  my  viols  could  float  to  them 
but  in  festal  echoes. 

A  certain  morning  at  last  came  when  I  happened 
to  enter  the  hall  of  the  cottage  and  discover  Ada 
at  some  distance  away  in  the  act  of  reading  a 
letter.  On  perceiving  me  in  the  doorway  she 
made  a  hasty  movement  as  if  to  conceal  this  letter. 
Then,  seeming  to  think  the  better  of  such  an 
action,  she  quietly  folded  it  and  was  placing  it  in 
the  envelope  as  I  advanced  toward  her.  We  met, 
but  I  did  not  kiss  her  as  usual.  Instantly  the  old 
unrest  had  me  in  its  keeping  ;  an  irrepressible  sus 
picion  had  broken  forth.  Still,  I  strove  to  give 
no  direct  sign  of  my  discomfort,  but  talked  on 
with  assumed  carelessness.  She  answered  me  in 
the  same  vein,  and  meanwhile  held  the  letter 
in  one  hand,  tapping  it  unconsciously  against  the 
back  of  the  other.  Then,  suddenly,  she  receded 
several  steps  and  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  full  of 
melancholy  amusement. 

"  Oh,  Otho,"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  easy  it  is  to 
read  your  moods  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked,  biting  my  lip. 

"  Mean  ? "  she  echoed.  "  Why,  that  you  are 
secretly  in  a  fume  of  displeasure.  And  why  ? 
Because,  when  you  appeared  yonder  a  few  minutes 
ago,  you  imagined  that  I  wished  to  conceal  from 
you  this  letter." 

"  Did  I  merely  imagine  it,  Ada  ?  "  I  said. 


316  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently  and 
lifted  both  hands.  "  And  if  you  did  not ! "  she 
replied.  "What  then?  Grant  that  I  did  wish 
to  conceal  the  letter."  She  shook  her  head  very 
sadly,  and  half  turned  away  from  me.  "  Ah,  jeal 
ousy  like  this,  so  ready  to  spring  up  at  a  moment's 
warning  —  what  name  shall  I  give  to  it  ?  What 
name  but  one  can  I  give  to  it,  Otho  ?  —  insult !  " 

"  Insult !  "  I  repeated,  with  a  pang  of  conscience 
as  I  spoke  the  word. 

"  Yes.  You  see  me  impelled  to  hide  from  you 
a  piece  of  writing.  That  is  enough.  You  forth 
with  give  full  rein  to  injustice.  You  accuse  me 
without  a  moment  of  hesitation."  She  faced  me 
again  and  held  out  the  letter.  "There — read  if 
you  desire.  Satisfy  yourself  whether  I  am  wrong 
ing  you  by  any  deceitful  correspondence  with  some 
unknown  lover  —  for  that  is  the  shape  which  I  am 
sure  your  fancies  have  taken.  There  is  the  letter, 
I  say ;  read  it !  " 

"No,"  I  answered;  "  I  will  not  read  it."  These 
words  I  pronounced  in  a  low,  resolute  tone,  but 
at  once  I  hurried  on,  with  remorse  in  my  eager 
sentences.  "  You  are  right,  Ada.  To  doubt  you 
is  to  insult  you !  I  shall  not  even  ask  you  what 
the  letter  contains.  Keep  it.  Keep  it  and  pardon 
me."  I  was  trembling  with  excitement  as  I  put 
my  arm  about  her  waist  and  drew  her  to  my 
breast,  kissing  the  pure  breadth  of  her  uplifted 
forehead. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  317 

"  The  letter  is  from  Foulke  Dorian,"  she  pres 
ently  said.  "  You  must  let  me  tell  you  about  it, 
Otho,  even  if  you  will  not  read  it.  My  sole 
motive  in  not  wanting  you  to  know  of  the  letter 
at  all  was  a  wish  to  spare  you  pain." 

"  I  am  certain  of  it ! "  I  murmured,  from  the 
depths  of  my  new  contrition.  "  And  he  has  writ 
ten  you  again,  Ada  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  wishes  me  to  hold  another  meeting 
with  him,  as  before.  He  has  some  new  proposition 
to  make  ;  he  wishes  my  consent  to  a  new  plan  of 
making  papa  accept  his  assistance.  At  least  that 
is  what  I  have  gathered  from  his  writing,  though 
here  and  there  its  exact  meaning  struck  me  as 
vague.  .  .  .  You  will  not  see  the  letter,  Otho? 
You  are  sure  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  I  said,  meeting  her  look  with  a  smile 
of  penitence.  "  Let  it  all  pass.  Tell  me  no  more. 
As  for  meeting  him  "  — 

"  I  can  do  so  if  I  choose?"  she  broke  in,  with  a 
soft  laugh,  finishing  my  response.  "  Ah,  that  is 
the  way  with  you  fiercely  jealous  people ;  you  go 
from  one  extreme  to  another ;  you  blow  hot  and 
cold.  .  .  He  does  not  mention  that  he  knows  of 
our  engagement.  His  ignorance  of  it  may  be 
counted  as  a  sort  of  excuse  for  his  writing  at  all. 
But  I  shall  not  meet  him  again.  He  has  no  right 
to  ask  me  —  not  a  vestige  of  right.  I  shall  not 
even  notice  his  letter.  There ;  are  you  satis 
fied?" 


318  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"No,  I  am  dissatisfied,"  I  returned.  "With 
myself.  Bitterly  so." 

This  reply  held  a  deeper  significance  than  she 
guessed.  But  she  spoke  almost  blithely  now  as 
she  said : 

"Such  storms  as  yours  only  leave  the  sky 
clearer.  At  least  they  claim  so  who  are  skilled 
in  the  psychology  of  lovers'  quarrels.  We  are 
not  so  skilled;  are  we,  Otho?  We  have  had  too 
little  experience  in  them  as  yet.  .  .  .  But  you  are 
quite  certain  you  will  not  see  the  letter  now?  " 

"  Quite  certain,"  I  said. 

" '  Assez,'  as  your  dear  guardian  would  put  it. 
Then  I  shall  burn  the  letter.  There  is  a  fire  in 
the  sitting-room ;  it  was  made  to  take  the  chill 
off  the  air  if  poor  papa  found  any  when  he  came 
down-stairs.  I  think  that  it  must  also  have  been 
made,"  she  added,  with  one  of  her  smiles,  "  for  the 
destruction  of  this  horrid  letter.  I  will  go  and 
drop  it,  envelope  and  all,  among  the  hottest  em 
bers.  So  perish  all  causes  of  disturbance  between 
you  and  me.  .  .  Wait  a  moment,  and  then  I  will 
join  you  for  a  little  walk  about  the  grounds.  We 
will  find  that  vine  on  which  you  saw  the  red  ber 
ries  ;  I  want  to  gather  some  for  the  sitting-room 
mantel."  .  .  . 

I  had  never  known  her  more  exquisitely  kind 
and  winsome  than  on  that  special  morning.  It 
stands  out  clearly  in  my  memory,  like  the  frost- 
touched  sprays  of  leafage  which  we  met,  sanguine- 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  319 

tinted  against  the  brilliant  September  air.  I  made 
a  passionate  inward  vow,  as  we  walked  together 
then,  that  I  would  never  let  the  faintest  shade  of 
disbelief  mar  my  love  hereafter.  She  had  been 
merciful  to  call  my  doubt  merely  insult;  it  had 
been  blasphemy,  sacrilege ! 

Three  or  four  days  of  perfect  serenity  went  by. 
Mrs.  Dorian  read  her  French  novels,  exchanged 
visits  with  her  neighbors,  declared  herself  the  most 
contented  woman  in  the  world,  but  now  and  then 
yawned  a  furtive  yawn  at  being  what  she  called 
depays£e.  Casimir  painted  industriously,  made  a 
few  airy  jokes  at  my  lovesick  expense,  and  com 
plained  more  than  once  that  I  could  not  find  for 
him  a  spare  hour  or  two  in  which  he  might  finish 
my  portrait.  "If  it  were  Rome  during  the  car 
nival  season,  my  dear  Otho,"  he  lamented  one 
evening  while  we  sat  at  dessert,  "you  could  not 
be  more  perpetually  engaged." 

"  It  is  Rockside  during  the  carnival  season,"  I 
told  him,  smiling. 

"  That  is  very  pretty,"  declared  Mrs.  Dorian, 
with  an  applausive  tinkle  of  her  coffee  spoon.  "  It 
must  be  imparted  to  Ada." 

"  She  will  not  thank  you  for  it,"  said  Casimir, 
with  a  sly  look  at  me.  "  She  has  already  a  surfeit 
of  that  kind  of  sweets." 

"  A  really  picturesque  compliment  is  always  a 
variety,"  said  Mrs.  Dorian.  "  Nothing  gives  one 
a  keener  impression.  The  man  who  invents  one  is 


320  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

almost  as  great  as  he  who  invents  a  new  omelette 
or  sauce  ;  the  acquired  reputation  should  differ 
only  in  degree." 

It  was  on  this  same  evening,  an  hour  or  so  later, 
that  I  strolled  along  the  rocks  toward  the  cottage. 
The  tide  was  at  its  full,  but  I  could  see  my  way 
with  perfect  clearness,  for  the  moon  was  also  at 
her  full,  making  the  Sound  one  sheet  of  quiet  splen 
dor  and  bringing  forth  in  dark,  intense  outline 
against  a  cloudless  heaven  the  masses  of  shoreland 
foliage.  The  air,  like  the  trees  and  the  water,  slept 
in  complete  calm.  The  majesty  and  tranquillity  of 
the  night  had  an  ideal  meaning.  I  remember  that 
as  I  moved  onward  beside  the  still,  rich  flood  of 
those  autumn  waters,  and  let  my  gaze  sweep  the 
scant-starred,  glorious,  lucid  sky,  this  thought 
passed  through  my  mind  : 

"  It  would  be  better  for  us  all  if  night  were 
always  as  fair  and  serene  as  this.  Such  grandeur 
would  exalt  us;  such  composure  would  restrain 
and  pacify  us;  such  purity  and  sanctity  would 
cleanse  and  ennoble  us.  Yet  these  nights  are  like 
our  better  selves ;  they  beam  out  in  the  entirety 
of  their  beauty  but  rarely,  and  between  their 
episodes  of  radiance  lie  intervals  of  gloom,  cloud 
and  even  tempest." 

I  had  nearly  reached  the  stone  steps  leading  up 
to  the  lawn  of  the  cottage.  I  have  known  early 
twilights  that  were  less  bright ;  it  was  almost  as 
if  I  walked  in  full  day,  except  that  no  day  would 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  321 

have  been  so  dreamy  and  ethereal.  The  very  lich 
ens  on  the  rocks  were  discernible,  in  their  crum 
pled,  lace-like  delicacy.  The  least  object  in  my 
path  or  beside  it  could  promptly  have  been  noted. 
It  was  not  strange,  then,  that  as  a  man's  figure 
suddenly  came  round  past  the  clump  of  trees  con 
cealing  the  path  by  which  you  could  reach  or  quit 
the  village,  I  immediately  perceived  his  presence 
and  faced  him  in  surprise. 

On  both  our  parts  recognition  was  instantaneous. 
I  saw  him  very  plainly,  as  he  likewise  must  have 
seen  me.  He  was  Foulke  Dorian. 

I  stood  quite  still,  regarding  him.  He,  too,  had 
paused.  Perhaps  the  moonlight  made  him  look 
paler  than  he  had  really  turned.  I  waited  for 
several  minutes,  thinking  that  he  would  break  the 
silence.  He  remained  speechless,  however,  looking 
at  me  with  the  old  languid  droop  wholly  gone  from 
his  eyelids.  At  length,  with  no  thought  of  wrong 
toward  Ada,  and  indeed  confidently  believing  in  her 
innocence  while  I  remembered  the  letter  she  had 
recently  received  from  this  man,  I  spoke  myself. 

"You  have  no  right  to  be  here,"  I  said,  with  my 
voice  not  raised  above  its  ordinary  tones. 

As  a  God  may  be  my  judge  while  I  now  write 
these  words,  I  had  no  anger  against  him  at  this 
moment.  I  had  no  feeling  except  a  contemptuous 
pity. 

I  had  waited  for  him  to  speak ;  I  now  waited 
for  him  to  reply. 


322  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 


XIV. 

HE  presently  did  reply,  and  with  a  sullen  un 
willingness,  as  though  the  words  were  literally 
dragged  from  his  lips. 

"  My  right  to  be  here  or  not  to  be  does  not  come 
from  you." 

"Nevertheless,"  I  said,  "since  Miss  Gramercey 
is  my  promised  wife  I  shall  hold  myself  bound  to 
respect  her  known  prejudices." 

I  saw  his  hands,  as  they  hung  at  his  sides,  clinch 
themselves.  "  I  had  intended  never  to  hold  the 
slightest  intercourse  with  you,  sir,"  he  said  huskily. 
"  I  think  you  must  know  why." 

"  By  all  means  persevere  in  your  resolve,"  I 
retorted.  "  It  is  not  yet  too  late  to  reconsider  it." 

A  certain  effect  of  moonlight  brought  to  his 
dull  eyes  a  greenish  flicker  as  he  now  scanned  my 
face.  His  lip  was  half  curled,  not  in  scorn,  but 
as  if  from  the  prompting  of  deep  spite  and  malice. 

"  You  put  upon  me  in  Paris,"  he  said,  with  the 
same  dogged  mutter  he  had  at  first  used,  "  a  vile 
outrage.  It  was  the  action  of  a  coward ;  your 
superior  strength  made  it  so.  Perhaps  you  wish 
to  repeat  the  act." 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  323 

"  Only,"  I  answered,  "  in  case  you  wish  to  re 
peat  the  unparalleled  insult  that  called  it  forth. 
And  I  think  that  I  can  afford,  Mr.  Dorian,  to  be 
called  a  coward  by  you,  who  have  proven  yourself 
a  conspicuous  one.  I  waited  a  whole  week  in 
Paris  to  hear  from  you,  and  I  realized  with  aston 
ishment,  at  last,  that  you  meant  to  pass  unnoticed 
what  you  now  term  a  vile  outrage." 

The  vicious  sneer  on  his  face  deepened.  He 
slowly  nodded  his  head  once  or  twice.  A  touch 
of  the  old  drawling,  insolent  tone  had  come  back 
to  him — the  tone  I  had  heard  him  employ  with 
such  villanous  result  in  Casimir's  Parisian  studio. 

"  Yes.  Quite  so.  You  thought,  no  doubt,  that 
I  would  drag  the  name  of  a  lady  whom  I  cared 
for  as  I  did  for  Ada  Gramercey  into  a  public 
duel." 

"  I  thought  nothing  of  this  kind,"  I  protested, 
inwardly  tingling  under  the  meanness  of  his  impli 
cation,  though  many  another  than  I  would  have 
tossed  it  aside  in  spirit  as  wholly  despicable.  "  Miss 
Gramercey 's  name  would  never  have  entered  into 
the  affair,  and  by  no  means  concerned  it.  Much 
as  I  disapprove  and  detest  duelling,  I  would  still 
have  allowed  you  the  chance  of  satisfaction  for 
the  pitiful  beating  I  gave  you.  No,  do  not  try  to 
lie  out  of  your  own  poltroonery.  And  quit  this 
spot  at  once,  or  I  may  repeat  the  warning  that  I 
administered  in  Paris." 

I  pointed  as  I  spoke  toward  the  little  grove 


324  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

of  trees  whence  he  had  lately  emerged ;  but  he  did 
not  stir. 

"  Go,"  I  commanded,  moving  quickly  nearer  to 
him.  As  I  did  so  a  tremor  passed  through  his 
frame,  whether  of  fear  or  hate.  But  still  he  did 
not  stir. 

"  The  law  may  make  you  sorry  for  this,"  he  said, 
meeting  my  look. 

"  Use  it  against  me  if  you  wish,"  I  responded, 
"But  first  you  must  prove  that  you  are  not  an 
intruder." 

"  It  is  not  for  you  to  say  that  I  am  one." 

"  I  happen  to  have  heard  Miss  Gramercey  state 
that  your  visits  here  were  disagreeable  to  her." 

He  almost  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  a 
sort  of  spasm  passed  over  his  face.  I  suddenly  felt 
all  hardness  leave  me ;  it  was  like  the  dropping 
away  of  some  coarse,  bristly  garment ;  my  feeling 
of  repulsion,  of  irritation,  became  a  compassionate 
one  only.  I  do  not  aver  that  any  respect  had  part 
in  it,  or  that  I  should  not  still  have  shrunk  from 
taking  his  hand.  But  in  a  voice  full  of  mild  and 
even  conciliatory  change  I  now  said  : 

"Believe  me,  it  will  be  quite  useless  for  you 
either  to  remain  here  or  to  appear  at  the  cottage. 
If  you  have  any  thought  of  meeting  Miss  Gra 
mercey  on  these  rocks  you  will  be  disappointed ; 
nor  will  the  young  lady  consent  to  hold  further 
conversation  with  you,  anywhere  or  at  any  time, 
regarding  a  certain  monetary  question.  Let  me 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  325 

beg  you  therefore  to  depart  peaceably  at  once." 
Here  I  took  out  my  watch;  the  face  was  clear 
enough,  in  that  wonderful  moonlight,  for  one  to 
tell  the  time  upon  it  without  an  effort.  "It  is 
now  slightly  after  nine  o'clock,"  I  continued. 
"  You  can  still  catch  a  train  to  town  \rery  easily, 
but  I  advise  you  not  to  delay."  He  had  dropped 
his  head  a  little  while  I  thus  addressed  him.  As 
I  ended  he  raised  it,  and  the  sneer  on  his  lips  had 
deepened.  I  recoiled  from  him.  "  You  refuse  to 
go  ?  "  I  said  involuntarily. 

He  did  not  answer  me,  but  he  was  looking  at 
me  with  an  expression  malignant,  almost  satanic. 
I  thought  that  he  was  about  to  speak,  and  repelled 
as  I  was,  I  awaited  his  answer.  But  for  several 
seconds  he  did  not  make  it ;  his  lips  quivered,  and 
seemed  to  be  so  dry  from  some  agitation  that  he 
more  than  once  noticeably  moistened  them  with  his 
tongue.  And  then,  at  last,  as  if  with  difficulty, 
he  spoke  two  words.  They  were  these : 

"Otho  Clauss" 

I  stepped  backward  many  paces.  If  a  knife  had 
been  plunged  into  me  I  could  not  have  been  more 
stricken  in  all  nervous  power.  I  must  have  grown 
ghastly  in  the  moonlight.  Doubtless  no  least  de 
tail  of  my  dismay  escaped  him,  for  he  now  sprang 
unhesitatingly  toward  me. 

"  Otho  Clauss,"  he  said  again. 

I  tried  to  be  calm.  I  knotted  my  hands  ;  I  shut 
my  teeth  together ;  I  felt  as  if  waves  of  fire  were 


326  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

given  me  instead  of  the  wonted  pulsations  of  my 
blood.  He  was  close  at  my  side,  but  I  had  not 
strength  enough  either  to  motion  or  to  push  him 
away. 

I  could  only  do  one  thing.  I  could  simply 
ask  him,  with  gasps  between  the  few  words  I 
spoke  — 

"  What  do  you  know?  " 

"  What  do  I  know  ?  "  he  echoed,  with  a  laugh 
whose  jeer  seemed  to  take  the  whole  mute,  sweet 
night  under  its  spell  and  render  it  a  wild,  dancing 
chaos.  "  What  do  I  know,  Otho  Clauss  ?  "  he  con 
tinued.  His  voice  was  close  to  my  ear.  I  wanted 
to  beat  it  off,  as  I  would  the  vans  of  a  bat,  but 
I  could  not.  "  I  know  that  you  are  not  Claud 
but  Clauss.  I  know  that  you  are  sprung  from  the 
very  lowest — the  scum — the  rabble  !  Your  father 
died  on  the  scaffold  for  murdering  his  wife." 

I  could  not  speak ;  I  listened ;  I  could  only 
listen.  It  was  somehow  as  if  I  listened  with  a 
thousand  ears.  A  flash  went  through  my  mind,  in 
which  I  saw,  keen  as  if  it  had  been  but  yesterday, 
my  father  kill  my  mother  in  that  populous  street, 
on  that  far-gone  Sunday  morning.  What  this 
man  now  said  to  me  was  an  actuality,  and  yet  it 
seemed  to  have  been  led  up  to  before  by  an  im 
mense  anticipation.  Here  was  I,  who  heard  it; 
here  was  another  who  hurled  it  at  me.  It  had 
been  fated  to  come  like  this  ;  it  had  been  ordained ; 
I  was  to  hear  it  again ;  I  had  waited  for  it ;  my 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  327 

dreams  had  told  me  it  would  some  day  sound  in 
my  ears  just  as  it  sounded  now. 

He  had  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  I  did 
not  shake  the  hand  off.  I  cannot  tell  in  what 
tone  I  questioned  of  him : 

"  How  have  you  heard  ?  " 

"  How  ?  "  he  said.  He  laughed,  and  his  hand, 
which  had  rested  on  my  shoulder,  seized  it.  His 
face  was  close  to  mine.  I  had  a  sense  of  his 
patrician  gear ;  an  odor  beset  me  from  the  violets 
bunched  in  his  coat.  (How  terrible  these  trifles 
were  at  this  moment !  How  they  assaulted  me 
and  caught  my  attention,  from  no  earthly  cause !) 
He  realized  that  he  had  flung  me  down,  so  to 
speak  —  that  he  could  say  what  he  chose  to  me. 
And  he  said  this  : 

"  Do  you  deny  ?  No,  you  do  not ;  you  cannot. 
I  have  found  it  all  out.  'How,'  you  ask  me? 
Well,  I  will  tell  you  how.  You  thought  every 
thing  secure,  did  you  not  ?  But  one  suspected  you 
always.  My  father  suspected  you  years  before  — 
that  day  when  I,  like  yourself,  was  a  boy,  and  you 
almost  fainted  on  hearing  that  Leopold  Clauss, 
your  father,  still  lived.  He  was  your  father.  You 
are  the  son  of  that  wretch.  I  don't  care  if  I  tell 
you  that  my  father,  Steven  Dorian,  set  me  to  tra 
cing  it  all  out.  He  knew  that  there  had  been  a 
nurse  for  you  when  you  were  so  ill  in  his  sister- 
in-law's  house,  after  you  first  appeared  there.  He 
had  been  told  so  by  one  of  his  own  servants  —  a 


328  TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

shrewd  woman,  who  had  known  Florine.  Florine 
—  that  was  her  name.  Mrs.  Dorian,  your  friend 
and  protectress,  had  given  her  a  large  sum  of  money 
not  to  speak.  My  father  told  me  his  suspicions 
only  lately,  when  I  returned  from  abroad.  At 
first  I  scoffed  at  them ;  then  I  reflected ;  then  I 
wondered  if  I  could  find  Florine.  I  did  find  her 
at  last.  She  was  a  miserable  old  hag  of  a  woman, 
but  her  memory  was  far  from  feeble  —  do  you 
understand?  She  had  had  a  son,  a  scamp,  who 
had  dissipated  all  her  savings.  She  was  a  devout 
Catholic,  was  Florine;  I  soothed  her  last  hours; 
I  got  her  to  confess  to  me ;  I  was  better  than  a 
priest.  A  priest,  if  he  helps  us  in  our  last  hours, 
is  not  above  taking  pay ;  but  I  gave  pay.  I  gave 
enough  pay  to  make  Florine  tell  me  it  all.  She 
had  gone  with  Mrs.  Dorian  to  that  hovel  in  the 
Bowery ;  they  took  you  away  together  in  a  car 
riage  ;  the  whole  neighborhood  had  been  infested 
with  small-pox  ;  some  people  with  whom  you  lived 
let  you  go,  though  they  were  loath  to  give  you  up 
at  first  till  convinced  that  it  was  for  your  good. 
My  aunt  was  doing  one  of  her  absurdly  eccentric 
things ;  she  succeeded  in  keeping  the  matter  a 
profound  secret.  Afterward  you  lay  ill  for  days. 
You  raved  in  your  fever ;  Florine,  who  had  guessed 
much,  guessed  more.  Besides,  my  aunt  made  her 
aware,  from  time  to  time,  of  the  complete  truth. 
.  .  .  This  is  what  I  bought  of  Florine,  your  old 
nurse,  Otho  Clauss.  .  .  And  now  I  am  armed  with 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  329 

what  I  know.  .  .  You  will  not  let  me  cross  over 
to  the  cottage,  eh  ?  You  will  persist  in  having  me 
go  back  to  town.  .  .  Are  you  quite  sensible  ?  .  . 
Ada  Gramercey  used  to  be  proud  —  a  mondaine  of 
pride  —  when  I  last  knew  her.  Perhaps  she  is 
changed.  But  I  doubt  it.  Would  she  marry  a 
man  descended  as  you  are  from  the  basest  of 
canaille  ?  Florine  is  still  alive ;  she  can  be 
brought  into  a  court  to  testify ;  she  is  not  too  old 
for  that!" 

He  paused.  I  felt  no  longer  weak,  then.  I 
shook  his  hand  from  my  shoulder. 

"  You  will  tell  her  this? "  I  said. 

"Yes." 

"  What  will  it  profit  you  ?  " 

"  I  love  her.     You  know  that." 

"  She  does  not  love  you."  I  spoke  with  effort. 
He  saw  this,  and  counted  upon  my  woful  dis 
array. 

"  You  are  rich,"  he  said,  with  his  face  close  to 
mine,  "  and  her  father  has  lost  nearly  everything. 
But  I  am  still  richer  than  you  and  can  make  her 
marry  me  if  you  withdraw.  I  love  her,  and  I  am 
determined  to  have  her.  After  to-night  —  after 
what  I  have  said  to  you,  Otho  Clauss,  you  will, 
you  must,  break  with  her.  You  will  find  some 
excuse.  If  you  do'not  "... 

"  Well,"  I  said,  straightening  my  form  and 
meeting  his  look  full,  "  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  her,"  he  said. 


330  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

There  must  have  been  some  startling  change  in 
my  face,  now,  as  I  confronted  him. 

"You  will  tell  her?"  I  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

It  seemed  to  me  then  as  if  I  were  not  a  man, 
but  a  demon.  And  yet  I  believe  that  I  spoke 
with  something  like  repose  —  the  repose  of  slum 
bering  tempest.  "  Tell  me,"  I  continued,  "  what 
you  will  do  after  you  have  told  her  ?  " 

"  I  will  "  (he  laughed  for  an  instant  harshly) 
"marry  her." 

"  Fool,"  I  said,  still  calmly ;  "  she  despises  you." 

He  laughed  again.  "  Before  she  met  you  she 
liked  nre.  When  you  sink  back  into  the  place 
where  you  belong  she  will  turn  again  to  me.  She 
always  hated  low  descent  and  bad  blood.  .  .  You 
need  not  look  at  me  with  that  haughty  air,  Otho 
Clauss  !  —  not  Claud  but  Clauss  !  You  sent  me 
away  cowed  from  that  room  in  Paris.  But  I  know 
what  is  behind  your  bravery  now; — nothing  but 
bravado  is  behind  it.  You  think  to  "  — 

I  caught  him  by  the  throat  then.  The  motive 
that  swayed  me  was  one  of  absolute  jealousy.  I 
believed  for  the  moment  that  he  could  win  Ada 
if  I  withdrew  my  suit.  I  cared  for  no  previous 
taunt ;  I  was  conscious  solely  of  one  fact  —  that  if 
the  woman  I  loved  should  know  the  truth  about 
me  she  might  —  though  even  years  hence  —  prefer 
him  to  me. 

That  had  become  my  one  swaying  and  dominant 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  331 

impulse.  He  reeled  as  I  set  my  grasp  where  I 
knew  it  might  kill.  I  wanted  it  to  kill.  All  sense 
of  mercy  had  left  me. 

A  low,  desperate  sound  of  struggle  came  from 
him.  He  twisted  wildly  to  and  fro.  A  thirst  for 
his  life  possessed  me.  His  hands  struck  at  me 
while  I  pushed  him  down  ;  his  strength  was  noth 
ing  to  mine ;  he  tottered  and  fell ;  my  grip  was 
still  at  his  throat ;  as  his  head  reached  earth  it 
struck  with  a  dull  noise ;  I  remember  that  this 
noise  gave  me  a  frightful  gladness.  I  clinched  my 
fingers  closer  in  his  throat ;  I  wanted  him  to  die ;  I 
withdrew  for  an  instant,  watching  him,  and  then 
I  seized  a  stone,  a  loose  bit  of  rock,  and  dashed  it 
once,  twice,  with  awful  force  downward  .  .  . 

It  was  with  me  as  though  I  had  ceased  to  be 
myself  and  had  become  my  father !  The  man  who 
had  done  that  hideous  thing  years  ago  seemed  to 
do  it  now  again  in  my  body,  my  spirit.  It  was 
the  curse  of  heredity.  I  wrought  the  horror,  as 
he  had  wrought  it  years  ago.  I  repeated  his  act. 
With  my  brain  mad,  with  my  blood  fire,  I  did 
what  Leopold  Clauss,  who  begot  me,  had  done 
that  day  in  the  far  past. 

1  had  killed  him.  I  knew  it  before  I  looked 
down  upon  him  and  saw  that  this  was  true  past 
all  mistake. 

They  who  live  sleek  lives  and  count  their  small 
daily  spites,  greeds,  revenges,  as  matter  of  import, 
can  have  no  concern  with  what  I  thought  and  felt 


332  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

at  this  time.  Scarcely  was  the  act  perpetrated 
than  I  became  once  more  myself. 

Can  you  fathom  the  infinite  meaning  of  that 
anguish  ? 

No.  The  voices  of  all  the  damned,  if  damned 
they  be  and  if  human  sin  expiates  itself  as  poem, 
picture  and  story  describe,  could  not  phrase  the 
horror  of  my  remorse. 

I  had  killed  him.  I  bent  over  him  with  dilated 
gaze  and  saw  that  I  had  killed  him.  It  was  I  who 
was  liis  murderer.  My  years  of  culture,  thought, 
refinement,  self-exaltation,  had  come  to  this  terri 
fying  end.  All  the  knowledge  that  I  had  gained 
in  past  years  —  all  the  emotions  that  I  had  sounded 
—  all  the  philosophy  that  I  had  probed  and  pon 
dered,  rushed  upon  me  now  in  one  jeering  swirl 
and  tumult.  The  exquisite,  opaline  night  flouted 
me  and  poured  dreadful  sarcasms  upon  me.  I, 
Otho  Claud,  with  high  hopes,  with  fine  aims,  with 
culture,  with  a  mind  of  telling  force,  with  theories 
of  what  mankind  would  become  in  some  nobler 
epoch,  with  my  poetry,  my  ideals,  my  love  for  art, 
for  letters,  for  the  disenslaving  of  humanity  from 
false  or  foolish  creeds  —  I,  Otho  Claud,  so  called, 
was  a  mere  gross,  brutish  murderer. 

A  murderer  —  I?  It  must  be  some  nightmare. 
I  staggered  backward,  as  Cain  might  have  done, 
with  both  hands  before  my  eyes  to  shut  out  the 
intruding  moonlight.  A  murderer?  I?  Impos 
sible  !  The  delusion  must  end  soon.  It  could  not 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  333 

last.  My  imagination  swept  back  to  domestic 
scenes,  to  trivial  incidents  of  bowing  before  ladies 
in  ball-rooms,  to  genial  moments  when  I  had  kissed 
a  hand,  buttoned  a  glove,  been  suave,  amorous, 
human,  inside  this  bloody  and  ghastly  limit  which 
now  set  me  so  inexorably,  for  all  future  time, 
beyond  my  fellows.  I  thought  of  men  and  women 
whom  I  had  not  remembered  for  years ;  their  very 
features  were  accurately  limned  in  my  memory  ; 
old  echoes  of  favorite  music  floated  through  my 
brain.  .  .  .  No,  no !  I  must  be  in  a  dream ;  I 
was  still  a  part  of  humanity  ;  I  could  not  thus 
have  leapt  its  bounds.  I  would  presently  wake. 
.  .  .  Why  did  I  not  wake  ?  Not  to  wake  would 
be  madness.  That  body  lay  there.  But  I  had 
not  killed  it.  I  ?  The  thought  was  folly.  I  heard 
Mrs.  Dorian  laugh  her  gruff  French  laugh,  and  I 
felt  her  tap  me  on  the  shoulder.  "  Otho,  mon 
cher"  she  seemed  to  say,  "you  are  dreaming." 
Was  I  dreaming?  Was  that  the  smile  of  Casimir, 
with  his  paint-brush  in  hand  and  his  tossed  blond 
locks,  and  his  desire  that  I  should  sit  to  him  for 
my  portrait?  Surely,  yes.  No  such  horrible  gulf 
as  this  yawned  between  me  and  the  bright, 
gracious  truth  of  actual  living  ! 

I  drooped  my  eyes.  I  looked  upon  the  man  I 
had  killed.  Shakespeare  —  famed  as  the  master 
in  telling  us  what  human  agony  can  do  with  the 
visible  universe  that  engirds  it  —  has  made  his 
men  and  women  speak  of  the  sky  being  drowned 


334  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

in  tears,  the  whole  earth  being  draped  in  liveries 
of  woe.  It  was  thus  with  me  at  this  crucial  and 
piercing  moment. 

"  What  had  I  done  ?  "  cried  my  conscience.  The 
blurred  and  reeling  moonlight  seemed  to  answer. 
I  had  murdered  a  fellow-creature  —  I,  Otho  Claud  ! 

There  he  lay,  bleeding  and  dead.  It  had  come 
to  this. 

As  my  brain  cleared  I  thought  of  the  one  thing 
that  a  being  jeopardized  as  I  was  must  perforce 
think  of.  A  sinking  sensation  came  upon  me  then. 
I  must  hide  the  body  that  I  had  slain.  I  fell  into 
the  ranks  of  the  uncounted  murderers  who  had 
existed  since  the  world  began.  It  was  just  as  if 
some  strong,  dark,  superhuman  emissary  of  earthly 
justice  had  drawn  close  to  me,  let  me  feel  the  awe 
that  clung  about  his  presence,  regarded  me  with 
shut  lips  and  implacable  eyes,  and  then  coldly  set 
upon  my  brow  the  stamp  of  a  frightful  fate. 

There  he  lay.  I  looked  down  upon  him.  .  . 
Soon  afterward  I  drew  quickly  backward.  In  the 
lovely  night  a  boat,  rowed  no  doubt  by  careless 
villagers,  was  passing  somewhere  near  the  rocks 
on  which  I  stood.  They  were  singing.  What 
was  their  song?  Something  that  meant  life,  se 
renity,  nature,  freedom  from  sin.  The  boat  stole 
nearer  and  then  glided  on.  The  song  it  gave  me 
had  been  happy,  and  its  recession  was  a  new  tor 
ture.  So  everything  henceforth  that  had  in  it  the 
worth,  peace  and  hope  of  my  kind  would  pass 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  335 

me  by.  Hereafter  I  must  be  isolated  among  my 
fellow-beings.  Horror  would  hedge  me  in  ;  loath 
ing  would  stand  as  my  sentinel. 

What  should  I  do  ?  Could  I  escape  the  charge 
of  this  crime?  Would  it  be  discovered  soon? 
When  would  it  be  discovered?  Ought  I  to  stand 
here  and  wait  for  those  who  would  come  to 
account  me  guilty  of  it? 

Regaining  a  certain  nerve,  I  felt  the  after- 
impulse  of  all  assassins  rise  within  me.  I  grew 
calm  as  I  grew  sensible  of  my  peril.  I  bethought 
me  of  Casimir.  He  must  be  told  —  he  must  aid  me. 

I  passed  from  the  scene  of  my  guilt.  A  sudden 
yearning  for  Casimir  thrilled  and  ruled  me.  I 
must  find  him.  .  .  I  brought  forth  my  watch  and 
tried  to  see  the  hour ;  the  white  disk  that  I  looked 
at  seemed  to  spin  about.  My  steps,  as  I  went 
homeward,  must  have  been  random,  zigzag.  I  do 
not  recall  how  I  ascended  the  piazza  of  Rockside ; 
I  only  remember  that  having  gained  it  I  stood 
before  one  of  the  low  French  windows  and  saw 
Casimir  poring  over  a  book,  seated  near  a  lamp. 
The  window  was  closed,  and  I  rapped  on  it. 

Casimir  started.  I  rapped  again.  He  rose.  Once 
more  I  rapped.  He  perceived  whence  the  sound 
came,  and  approached  the  window  near  which  I 
stood. 

Soon,  with  his  face  against  the  pane,  he  recog 
nized  me. 

"  Casimir,"  I   said,  in  a  whisper.      The   house 


336  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

had  been  closed  for  the  night.  He  could  open  the 
window  only  by  making  an  undue  noise.  His 
rapid  gesture  indicated  this.  "  I  will  join  you  on 
the  piazza,"  it  seemed  to  say. 

I  waited.  Presently  I  saw  the  doors  of  the 
front  window  unclose.  Casimir,  in  his  velvet 
artist's-coat,  with  his  pure,  fine  face,  with  his 
lightsome,  jaunty,  foreign  manner  now  appeared. 

"Casimir,"  I  said,  grasping  both  his  hands  as 
we  met.  Then  I  suddenly  dropped  his  hands.  It 
seemed  an  infamy  that  I  should  touch  them. 

u  I  was  waiting  for  you,  Otho,"  he  said,  scanning 
my  face  in  the  dim  light,  dimmer  to  him,  no  doubt, 
because  of  the  illumination  he  had  just  left. 
"  Madame  has  gone  to  bed,"  he  continued,  "  and  " 
.  .  .  There  he  paused.  He  had  seen.  A  shaft  of 
lamplight  from  the  broad  window  must  have  made 
him  see. 

He  grasped  my  arm.  "  You  are  white  as  a 
ghost,  Otho,"  he  exclaimed.  "What  has  hap 
pened?" 

I  did  not  answer  him.  As  his  hand  presently 
touched  my  own,  he  shot  at  me  a  glance  full  of 
alarm. 

"You  are  cold  as  ice,  Otho!"  he  exclaimed. 
"  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

I  made  him  no  answer.  By  this  time  he  could 
see  me  plainly  enough.  He  stared  at  me,  in  that 
quick,  searching  way  which  makes  the  brow  of 
the  observer  incline  itself.  And  now  he  spoke 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  337 

swiftly  in  his  own  language,  putting  a  hand 
against  either  of  my  temples. 

"  Otho,  I  am  certain  that  something  horrible 
has  happened.  Tell  me  what  it  is." 

I  suddenly  drew  back  from  him.  This  move 
ment  was  instinctive.  How  would  he  regard  me 
when  he  knew  the  truth?  And  until  he  knew 
the  truth  I  was  a  monster  of  uncleanness  beside 
his  unsoiled  manhood.  His  pity  might  come 
afterward;  but  I  had  no  right  even  to  hope  for 
that. 

"  Casimir,"  I  faltered,  "  there  is  something  hor 
rible.  I  —  I  must  tell  it  you." 

He  caught  me  again  in  his  arms.  "  What  is  it, 
Otho  ? "  he  demanded.  There  was  love  in  his 
embrace.  I  leaned  my  head  on  his  shoulder,  and 
spoke. 


338  TIIE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 


XV. 

CASIMIR  listened.  I  felt  his  form  tremble  while 
I  told  him  what  I  had  to  tell. 

I  had  bowed  my  head.  His  face  was  colorless 
when  I  raised  my  eyes  to  it.  But  still  it  was 
doubtful,  perplexed.  "You  .  .  you  have  killed 
Foulke  Dorian  ?  "  he  gasped,  at  length. 

«  Yes." 

"  You  are  not  mad,  Otho  ?    You  seem  mad." 

"  I  have  killed  Foulke  Dorian." 

"Hush!" 

With  that  word,  delivered  in  a  wholly  new  tone, 
I  perceived  all  distrust  of  my  sanity  vanish  from 
his  face. 

"Where,  .  .  where  is  he,  Otho?    Tell  me." 

"  On  the  shore  opposite  the  cottage." 

"  Come." 

He  took  my  arm.  We  left  the  house  together. 
He  did  not  speak  until  we  had  almost  reached  the 
spot.  Then  he  paused. 

"  Where  ?  "  he  said. 

I  made  a  gesture.  He  went  forward,  leaving 
me  alone.  Suddenly  the  same  boat  to  whose 
voices  I  had  hearkened  before,  was  heard  with  its 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  339 

high,  sweet  choric  song.  I  listened,  standing 
alone.  It  seemed  like  the  song  of  angels  to  a  soul 
eternally  lost ! 

A  little  later  Casimir  returned.  His  face,  plain 
in  the  moonlight,  had  the  hues  of  death. 

"  You  did  this,  Otho,  —  you !  "  he  murmured. 

"Yes." 

The  look  that  he  gave  me  was  an  agony.  He 
suddenly  flung  his  arms  about  me.  What  he  did 
was  like  what  a  woman  might  do,  but  it  had  none 
of  a  woman's  weakness. 

"You,  Otho!  You,  so  high  and  noble!  Tell 
me  that  it  was  not  your  act !  Tell  me !  .  .  . 
Ah,  I  see!  Otho,  you  did  do  it.  My  God!  You!" 

"  Casimir,"  I  said,  disengaging  myself  from  his 
embrace,  "  the  crime  has  been  committed.  . 
What  is  to  follow?" 

He  swept  his  look  over  my  face  in  a  way 
impetuously  questioning.  "  Can  you  ask  that  ?  " 
he  moaned.  .  .  "  Otho,  we  —  we  must  act ! " 

"Act?"  I  said. 

"Yes  —  you  and  I  —  for  God's  sake  don't  lose 
your  strength  now —  now,  of  all  times ! " 

"Is  it  not  best  to  give  myself  up?"  I  asked. 
"  Perhaps  it  is  best.  I  will  do  as  you  say." 

"  Give  yourself  up  ?  "  He  laughed  as  he  spoke. 
It  was  a  laugh  made  of  fearful  falsettos.  "  Otho, 
you  must  save  yourself.  You  cannot  mean  that 
you  will  attempt  anything  else  ?  .  .  Ah,  what 
would  I  not  do  to  save  you  ?  It  is  horrible ;  it  is 


340  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

a  calamity  I  never  dreamed  of.  But  you  must  be 
saved.  This  man  came  here  to-night  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  by  what  train  he  came?" 

"  No  .  .  I  know  nothing." 

"  Wait,"  he  said,  and  left  me.  I  sank  down  on 
the  rocks,  with  my  head  on  my  breast.  I  do  not 
know  how  long  it  was  before  he  returned,  but 
he  may  have  been  absent  a  full  hour.  As  his 
touch  at  last  fell  on  my  shoulder  I  started  to  my 
feet. 

"Well?"  I  questioned. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  drawing  my  arm  within  his. 
We  were  presently  standing  near  a  sort  of  chasm 
in  the  rocks  —  a  fissure  filled  with  gloom,  and  some 
what  narrowed  at  its  opening.  This  whole  por 
tion  of  the  shore  was  unusually  wild  and  rugged. 
It  lay  several  yards  beyond  the  curve  where  the 
cluster  of  trees  grew,  and  at  the  base  of  the  little 
promontory  thus  formed.  A  path  —  the  continu 
ation  of  that  leading  from  the  village  —  wound  in 
among  the  trees  a  short  distance  farther  inland. 
That  was  the  path  which  Foulke  Dorian  had  taken. 

Casimir  pointed  to  the  long,  dark  crevice.  "  I 
have  thrown  the  body  there,"  he  whispered.  "  It 
has  fallen  six  or  seven  feet  at  the  very  least.  You 
see  the  tides  do  not  reach  to  here.  And  even 
if  they  ever  should,  they  could  not  dislodge  the 
body,  for  I  have  fastened  to  it  a  great  piece  of 
stone.  I  have  made  no  mistake.  Unless  there  is 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  341 

a  very  close  search,  he  can  never  be  found.  That 
blood  on  the  rocks — I  have  had  to  wash  it  away 
as  best  I  could.  I  think  there  will  be  no  trace  of 
it  in  the  morning,  but  I  must  return  early  and  see. 
.  .  As  soon  as  we  can,  Otho,  we  must  leave  this 
place.  I  will  invent  some  excuse ;  we  must  go  to 
morrow,  if  possible — to  New- York  first,  and  then 
elsewhere.  We  will  be  gone  two  or  three  weeks  ; 
remaining  here  would  put  too  fearful  a  strain  on 
both  of  us.  We  can  come  back  afterward." 

"Afterward"  ...  I  murmured.  "What  does 
that  word  mean  for  me?  Oh,  if  I  could  die  to 
night  !  My  father  tried  to  kill  himself  '  after 
ward.'  I  should  make  the  same  attempt  —  and 
without  failure.  It  is  the  only  thing  left  me." 

Casimir,  who  still  held  my  arm,  tightened  his 
grasp  upon  it.  "Let  us  go  back  to  Rockside 
now,"  he  said.  "  There  is  danger  in  our  continu 
ing  here  too  long.  We  may  already  have  been 
observed.  .  .  Come." 

He  led  me  away.  We  re-entered  the  house  as 
softly  as  we  could.  Till  dawn  we  sat  together, 
talking.  I  had  never  dreamed  till  now  of  the 
magnitude  of  this  man's  love  for  me.  Of  course 
his  suffering  differed  from  mine,  yet  in  its  way  it 
was  just  as  keen.  He  had  wholly  ceased  to  re 
proach  me.  It  was  broad  daylight  and  the  birds 
had  begun  their  chirping  outside  in  the  chill 
autumn  air,  when  he  said  to  me : 

"If  you  could  get  a  little  sleep  now  —  only  a 


342  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

few  hours  of  it,  Otho  —  you  might  gain  strength 
and  composure." 

"  Sleep,"  I  repeated,  with  a  low  groan.  "  I  won 
der  if  I  shall  ever  sleep  again." 

Not  long  after  this  Casimir  quitted  the  cham 
ber.  I  knew,  without  asking,  whither  he  had  gone. 
To  the  shore,  that  he  might  search  for  some  tell 
tale  signs  of  the  murder.  He  had  already  destroyed 
those  garments  belonging  to  each  of  us  which  bore 
a  single  blood-stain ;  he  had  cut  them  into  strips 
first  and  then  burned  them  to  ashes,  afterward 
scattering  these  forth  to  the  night-wind.  No  pre 
caution  had  been  forgotten  by  him  ;  the  very  water 
with  which  we  cleansed  our  hands  he  had  feared 
to  place  in  the  ordinary  utensils. 

"  Will  all  his  alertness  profit  any  thing  ? "  I 
remember  asking  myself.  "  Will  it  keep  me  from 
the  scaffold  where  my  father  perished  ?  And  what 
if  it  does  not?  Such  an  end  will  make  so  slight 
a  difference  now !  I  shall  die  a  thousand  deaths 
from  remorse,  even  if  I  do  not  die  that  one  death 
by  justice." 

A  sort  of  devil-may-care  torpor  was  over  me. 
If  Casimir  had  re-appeared  to  tell  me  that  my  crime 
had  been  discovered  and  that  my  arrest  was  immi 
nent,  I  should  have  scarcely  made  an  attempt  to 
fly.  While  we  had  talked  together  my  speech  had 
been  but  a  series  of  despairing  replies,  and  now  I 
sat  stunned  and  apathetic  during  the  absence  of 
my  friend. 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  343 

I  had  the  sense  of  lying  maimed  at  the  bottom 
of  some  huge  abyss,  and  of  gazing  upward  to  see 
the  light  of  heaven  far  and  dim,  a  mere  speck  of 
hopeless  blue.  It  was  not  strange  that  imagi 
nation  wrought  this  graphic  allegory  within  my 
brain,  for  the  feeling  of  having  fallen  or  been 
hurled  downward  from  a  lofty  height  was  perpet 
ually  active.  So  many  other  men  pass  by  slow 
degrees  toward  the  mental  degradation  which 
makes  them  murderers.  I  had  slipped  into  mine 
with  hardly  an  instant's  warning.  There  had 
been,  with  me,  no  previous  alienation  from  moral 
standards,  no  crumbling  away  of  principle,  no 
subtle  erosion  of  manhood  and  honor.  My  life 
had  suddenly  crashed  about  me,  so  to  speak,  in 
appalling  ruin ;  but  the  fragments  were  still  fair 
and  sound ;  they  told  of  the  shattering  lightning- 
bolt  rather  than  the  slow  decay.  If  my  sin  had  « 
been  that  of  some  known  monster  I  could  not  have 
regarded  it  with  greater  antipathy.  And  my  capa 
city  to  do  this  —  to  reach  a  plain,  frigid  estimate 
of  just  how  deep  and  black  was  the  sin  itself  —  to 
witness  it  with  eyes  that  were  not  those  of  any 
common  criminal  but  of  a  being  educated  and  en 
lightened  beyond  thousands  of  his  kind  —  in  such 
capacity  could  be  found  all  the  pathos  of  my  ter 
rible  situation.  And  yet  now  I  despised  self-pity 
as  much  as  I  did  self-excuse.  In  those  other  mo 
ments  of  frenzy  it  had  been  easy  to  shift  the  blame 
of  my  guilt  upon  fate,  circumstance,  heredity. 


344  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

But  I  did  so  no  longer.  The  very  extent  of  my 
repentance  had  become  the  measure  and  index  of 
my  responsibility.  I  had  been  burdened  from 
childhood  with  a  curse,  but  no  palliative  was  in 
cluded  in  this  fact.  Untold  advantages  had  been 
given  me  as  weapons  wherewith  to  fight  against 
and  conquer  it.  That  I  had  struggled  was  no  plea 
in  my  favor ;  I  should  have  struggled  with  victory. 
Once  previously  on  that  same  shore  a  solemn  mo 
nition  had  come  to  me.  If  I  had  seen  an  ulcer 
bedded  in  my  flesh  I  would  have  sought  drugs 
to  lessen  and  cure  it.  It  was  idle  to  assert  that  I 
could  not  have  been  the  physician  of  my  own  soul. 
The  means  were  within  my  reach;  no  vigilance, 
no  fast,  no  scourge  should  have  been  spared.  The 
facile  power  with  which  I  made  others  yield  to  me, 
love  me,  grant  me  precedence  and  leadership, 
should  have  been  like  a  sword  of  warning  waved 
above  that  subtle  egotism  hardening  and  spread 
ing  through  all  my  nature.  Humility  would  have 
proved  my  safeguard,  as  egotism  had  proved  my 
defeat;  for  on  the  latter  quality  a  jealousy  like 
mine  feeds,  like  a  ghastly  offspring  on  poisonous 
diet.  In  my  father  it  had  been  barbaric ;  in  me 
it  should  have  been  civilized.  No ;  either  my 
offence  was  rank  and  smelled  to  Heaven,  or  else 
all  progress  and  reform,  all  evolution  from  beast 
to  man,  all  rise  from  savage  to  humanitarian, 
all  the  mighty  lesson  taught  by  science,  all  the 
imperishable  wisdom  dug  out  of  ignorance  by 


TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  345 

dead  and  living  thinkers  —  all  was  futility,  sham, 
shadow ! 

Provocation  ?  Yes,  I  had  had  it.  So  much  the 
greater  reason  for  sobriety.  Temptation  ?  True, 
I  might  have  felt  it.  So  much  the  greater  reason 
for  tolerance.  Whatever  I  may  elsewhere  have 
recorded  in  these  pages  regarding  my  belief  that 
some  limit  is  set  to  our  human  means  of  escaping 
a  foreordained  destiny,  I  seemed  now  to  behold 
the  denial  of  this  theory  seared  as  with  letters  of 
fire  on  my  own  conscience.  The  amplest  means 
of  escape  had  been  placed  within  my  control.  I 
could  have  shaped  my  destiny  as  I  chose.  Ah ! 
may  these  words,  that  teem  with  a  conviction 
bought  at  so  fatal  a  price,  be  read  hereafter  with 
precious  profit  by  some  fellow-creature  in  peril  of 
a  downfall  like  mine !  Not  to  all  are  given  the 
shield  and  spear  when  the  foe  threatens.  But  to 
me  they  were  given,  and  how  ill  had  I  used  them  ! 
Over  so  gigantic  a  failure  as  that  which  I  had 
made  of  my  life  the  tears  of  angels  might  well 
have  flowed  and  the  laughter  of  devils  have 
sounded  ! 

As  I  heard  the  step  of  Casimir  recross  the 
threshold  I  raised  my  head  and  looked  at  him. 
Just  then  I  became  conscious  of  a  gusty,  beating 
noise  against  the  window-panes,  and  a  moment 
afterward  he  said : 

"  A  severe  storm  has  set  in.  It  is  the  equinox, 
no  doubt.  The  rain  is  rushing  down  in  torrents. 


340  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

No  one  will  visit  that  spot  to-day.  The  storm 
began  a  little  while  after  I  had  reached  it."  He 
was  removing  his  drenched  coat  as  he  spoke. 
"  There  were  a  few  faint  traces  on  the  rocks,"  he 
continued,  "  where  I  had  dashed  water,  brimming 
my  hat  with  it  again  and  again  last  night.  But 
now  this  drenching  rain  will  wash  away  every 
thing." 

"  Satan  takes  care  of  his  own,  perhaps,"  I  said, 
with  a  shudder. 

He  came  nearer  to  me.  "  Oh,  for  God's  sake, 
Otho,"  he  appealed,  "  do  not  look  and  speak  like 
that !  If  you  are  reckless  about  discovery,  think 
of  us !  You  have  called  me  your  brother  more 
than  once.  You  have  often  referred  to  my  aunt 
as  your  mother." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  gazing  up  at  him  from  where  I 
crouched,  and  slowly  shaking  my  head. 

u  Then  there  is  she  whom  you  love  —  Ada ! 
Think  of  her." 

"Do  not  speak  of  her,  Casimir,"  I  faltered, 
covering  my  face. 

He  came  still  nearer  to  me.  Presently  he  had 
put  his  arm  about  my  neck  and  drawn  my  head 
forward  till  it  rested  on  his  breast.  "  Otho,"  he 
murmured,  "  everything  is  not  lost.  You  did  it 
in  a  mad  moment.  No  one  need  ever  know  the 
truth  save  yourself  and  me.  Of  course  you  will 
suffer.  But  we  will  bear  the  suffering  together. 
Lean  upon  me  as  if  you  were  hurt  and  I  were  help- 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  347 

ing  you  to  walk  somewhere  toward  shelter  and 
relief.  Think  of  me  as  strong  whenever  you  think 
of  yourself  as  weak.  Cling  to  me,  trust  me.  By 
and  by  a  change  will  come.  I  love  you  better 
than  I  ever  loved  you  before.  Oh,  brother,  more 
than  brother,  listen  and  be  comforted.  A  little 
comfort  will  come  to  you  —  not  much  as  yet, 
perhaps,  but  at  least  a  little  —  if  only  you  will  let 
it  come.  You  told  me  to-night  that  you  wanted 
them  to  find  you  and  charge  you  with  the  deed. 
Oh,  Otho,  is  love  like  mine,  like  your  second 
mother's,  like  Ada's,  to  be  flung  carelessly  away? 
You  see  I  put  myself  first ;  I  must  do  that,  for  I 
cannot  yield  to  anyone.  And  you  have  us  all  — 
all  three.  I  alone  shall  know.  The  two  others 
will  still  love  you  just  as  before.  We  will  guard 
our  secret  so  well,  unless  —  Ah !  you  guess  what 
I  mean !  But  it  has  not  been  discovered  yet. 
There  is  a  great  chance  that  it  never  will  be  dis 
covered.  True,  he  may  have  been  seen  to  leave 
the  train  at  the  station.  And  yet  the  hour  was 
after  dark,  and  no  doubt  he  went  straight  from 
the  station  to  the  by-road,  which  is  but  a  step. 
Once  among  the  trees  it  is  more  than  probable 
that  he  was  not  observed.  .  .  And  Otho,  think  ! 
Think,  and  clearly,  with  that  large,  strong  brain 
of  yours.  It  was  not  such  a  dreadful  thing  to 
have  done  after  all.  I  might  have  done  it  my 
self"— 

"  You,  Casimir !  "  I  broke  in,  lifting  my  head 


348  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

and  looking  at  him.  His  gray  eyes  —  those  beau 
tiful,  dreamy  gray  eyes  —  were  glistening  in  tears. 
Ah,  how  he  loved  me  !  Surely  he  was  right.  To 
this  man,  so  delicate  and  yet  so  gallant  and  virile 
of  nature,  I  was  indeed  *  more  than  brother ' ! 
"  You,  Casimir  !  "  I  repeated.  "  Never !  " 

"  Do  not  be  so  sure  of  that,"  he  went  on,  for 
cing  my  head  caressingly  downward  upon  his 
breast  as  he  spoke.  I  knew  that  he  was  deceiving 
me,  and  yet  his  words,  infinitely  tender  and 
spurred  by  a  friendship  richly  unselfish,  were  not 
without  their  faint,  gentle  encouragement.  "  Yes, 
Otho,  I  might  have  done  it.  .  .  But  whether  I 
might  or  no,  remember  how  he  provoked  you. 
What  he  said  to  you  there  in  my  studio  in  Paris 
was  infamous.  It  made  me  hate  and  despise  him. 
If  you  had  not  punished  him  then  I  would  have 
done  so,  and  with  as  much  right  as  you,  for  she  is 
of  my  blood,  and  the  aspersion  was  vile.  Then, 
there  on  the  shore,  he  threatened  to  tell  Ada 
Gramercey  the  whole  truth  about  your  birth. 
That  was  the  basest  kind  of  meanness.  He 
taunted  you  as  cruelly  as  one  man  ever  taunted 
another." 

My  hand  had  stolen  into  Casimir's.  I  looked 
up.  My  eyes  directly  met  his  for  the  first  time 
since  I  had  confessed  my  guilt  to  him.  He  had 
pierced  something  sluggish  and  paralyzed  in  my 
spirit ;  he  had  given  me  a  sort  of  reason  to  believe 
that  I  still  bore  the  right  of  calling  myself  a  man. 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  349 

I  do  not  claim  that  I  was  justified  in  thus  believ 
ing.  These  confessions  of  mine  are  never  to  be 
taken  as  an  extenuation  of  crime  ;  they  are  im 
measurably  the  opposite ;  they  are,  if  anything,  a 
self-abasement,  a  humiliation,  an  effort  to  express 
the  possibility  of  human  regeneration,  human 
excellence,  in  spite  of  all  hurtful  and  destructive 
hereditary  conditions.  That  I  failed  momentously 
is  no  reason  why  others,  far  less  finely  equipped 
for  success,  should  not  conquer  and  triumph. 

Still,  a  new  set  of  emotions  now  assailed  me. 
I  bgan  to  breathe,  as  it  were,  with  a  freer  breath. 
Perhaps  Casimir  was  right.  It  shot  through  my 
mind  that  in  the  life  of  this  atom  which  we  call 
our  world,  men  had  existed  who  were  held  honor 
able  yet  had  slain  a  fellow-man  for  far  less  than 
what  had  goaded  and  inflamed  me. 

"  He  did  taunt  me  horribly,  Casimir,"  I  said. 
"  Ah,  be  careful,"  I  went  on,  with  a  touch  of 
wildness  in  my  tones  and  the  struggle  of  a  sob  in 
my  throat.  "  You  may  make  me  hold  this  crime 
more  lightly  than  I  hold  it  now.  And  I  know  its 
abomination  !  I  know  —  I  shall  always  know, 
even  if  I  one  day  gain  the  courage  of  wanting 
to  live  —  of  wishing  to  evade  the  doom  that  I 
deserve." 

"It  is  that  feeling,  Otho,"  he  hurriedly  an 
swered,  "which  I  desire  you  to  have.  Let  me 
dissolve  your  torpor,  and  I  shall  be  content.  You 
called  yourself  to-night  a  vulgar  murderer  —  you 


350  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

called  yourself  your  own  father,  whose  deed  I 
know  you  execrate  —  again  and  again.  You  are 
not  like  him.  You  have  been  outraged,  spit  upon, 
trampled  upon,  by  a  coward.  Suppose  you  had 
fought  a  duel  with  him  and  killed  him.  It  would 
have  been  fair;  we  French  think  that  fair.  But 
he  was  beneath  fighting  you ;  he  did  not  dare 
meet  you.  You  recall  how  we  waited  in  Paris  for 
him  to  give  us  a  sign  "... 

And  so  he  continued,  this  Casimir,  this  peerless 
friend,  who  reminded  me  with  a  frightful  sarcasm 
of  the  love  I  had  been  able  to  awaken  in  my  own 
kind,  and  of  what  untold  benefit  a  man  endowed 
with  this  power  might  have  wrought  on  earth  ! 

But  he  gained  his  point.  I  rose,  a  little  later, 
with  kindling  hopes,  with  a  sense  that  I  should 
strive  against  discovery,  arrest  and  death,  with  a 
longing  to  have  my  guilt  buried  as  was  the  body 
of  him  whom  I  had  slain  —  yes,  almost  with  an 
impulse  to  place  my  act  outside  the  inevitable 
murderous  pale. 

Casimir  quickly  saw  the  change.  He  grasped 
both  my  hands.  The  rain  was  beating  furiously 
against  the  window  panes.  Its  sound  was  a  sort 
of  doleful  encouragement. 

"  You  will  act  with  me ! "  said  Casimir.  A 
sombre  joy  lit  his  eyes.  "  You  will  riot  let  your 
despair  crush  you,  Otho  !  .  .  Thank  God  !  " 

He  burst  into  passionate  tears  a  moment  after 
ward.  But  the  paroxysm  did  not  last  long.  I  saw 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD,  351 

him  make  a  great  effort  to  master  it,  and  he  soon 
did  so.  ... 

At  breakfast  time  we  met  Mrs.  Dorian.  "We 
were  both  thoroughly  composed.  Casimir  played 
his  part,  and  played  it  well.  He  declared  the  rain 
to  be  something  intolerable.  It  was  undoubtedly 
the  equinox,  and  Rockside  during  the  equinox 
would  be  genant  beyond  endurance.  Besides,  he 
was  quite  out  of  two  very  important  colors.  He 
could  not  paint  without  them.  He  had  been  so 
stupid  not  to  send  to  town  for  them ;  they  were 
vitally  necessary  for  the  picture  he  was  now  paint 
ing.  What  should  he  do  ?  He  must  go  to  town, 
and  he  doubted  whether  he  would  return  till  this 
horrid  storm  was  over.  As  for  myself,  Otho,  I 
should  have  gone  days  ago.  Why  did  I  not  ac 
company  him  ?  I  knew  very  well  that  there  were 
a  hundred  new  matters  concerning  the  estate 
which  I  had  not  yet  looked  into.  Perhaps  when 
I  got  to  town  I  should  find  that  I  would  be  kept 
so  fearfully  busy  for  a  week  that  I  could  not  think 
of  returning  to  Rockside  till  all  the  melange  of 
business  had  been  settled. 

"My  dear  Casimir,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorian 
petulantly,  "  I  never  saw  you  really  selfish  till  now. 
You  wish  to  leave  me  alone  in  this  great  house, 
with  this  deluge  of  rain  for  society.  It  is  merci 
less  in  you." 

" Ah,  ma  tante"  said  Casimir  gayly,  " you  will 
not  think  it  so  merciless  when  Otho  telegraphs 


352  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

you  that  you  were  in  clanger  of  losing  thousands 
by  his  neglect  of  your  affairs.  As  for  society,  we 
will  send  you  all  the  new  novels  we  can  find, 
French,  German  or  English." 

"  Casimir  is  right,  madame,"  I  now  said.  "  It 
is  really  imperative  that  I  should  look  in  at  the 
office.  Perhaps  I  can  return  in  a  day  or  two ; 
perhaps  even  to-night." 

Mrs.  Dorian  yielded  reluctantly  enough.  Casimir 
and  I  made  some  hasty  preparations,  and  by  noon 
announced  that  our  departure  would  take  place 
at  one  o'clock. 

"  In  an  hour ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorian.  "  Otho," 
she  went  on,  "you  look  pale,  worried,  dSsolt.  . 
You  are  like  a  man  who  nerves  himself  to  be  cheer 
ful.  I  hope  no  bad  news  has  reached  you  in  those 
letters  you  got  this  morning.  If  I  guess  rightly, 
mon  cher,  pray  do  not  continue  to  deceive  your 
best  of  friends." 

"  I  ?  "  was  my  uneasy  murmur.  "  If  any  bad 
news  had  come  you  should  be  the  first  to  learn  it. 
.  .  I  fear  that  the  storm  depresses  me,  as  it  does 
Casimir." 

Mrs.  Dorian  glanced  toward  one  of  the  jarred 
and  rain-whipped  windows.  "  It  is  truly  another 
flood,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am  to  be  left  alone  in  my 
ark."  She  suddenly  turned  and  gave  me  a  keen 
look.  "  But  you  will  surely  not  go  without  saying 
good-by  to  Ada  ?  " 

I  was  prepared   for  this.     But   before  I  could 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  353 

answer  Casimir  struck  merrily  in :  "  Oh,  aunt,  do 
you  not  see  that  the  prospect  of  bidding  Made 
moiselle  Ada  farewell  is  what  torments  our  poor 
Romeo  here  ?  But  we  will  order  the  carriage  a 
half  hour  earlier  than  is  necessary,  and  stop  at  the 
cottage  on  our  way  to  the  station." 

We  did  order  the  carriage  a  half-hour  too  early, 
but  without  afterward  stopping  at  the  cottage.  I 
was  to  write  Ada  from  New-York  —  if  I  could. 
To  meet  her  and  to  enact  this  hypocrisy  before  her 
as  I  had  done  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Dorian, 
would  have  been  a  sheer  foolhardy  trial  of  my 
own  endurance.  And  Casimir,  if  I  had  proposed 
such  a  plan,  would  eagerly  have  discountenanced 
it. 

That  night  we  rested  at  a  New- York  hotel.  The 
rain  still  fell  in  torrents  here  as  it  had  done  at 
Rockside.  Before  retiring,  Casimir  mailed  to  his 
aunt  a  letter  which  was  a  masterpiece  of  natural 
istic  deception.  New- York,  he  declared,  had  im 
pressed  him,  during  this  furious  storm,  as  more 
appallingly  ugly  than  he  had  ever  yet  found  it.  He 
had  conceived  an  idea  of  running  on  to  Washing 
ton,  which  he  had  never  seen,  and  which  might 
prove,  now  of  all  other  times,  a  refreshing  change. 
He  had  induced  me  to  become  his  companion.  I, 
Otho,  was  able  to  send  the  pleasant  news  that 
matters  at  my  office  were  in  less  of  a  turmoil  than 
we  had  both  anticipated.  Of  course  I  had  writ 
ten  the  usual  amorous  lament  to  Miss  Gramercey, 


354  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

whom  at  the  last  moment  I  had  been  ridiculously 
unable  to  bid  farewell. 

"But  I  have  written  nothing,"  I  said,  with 
a  heavy  sigh.  "My  pen  has  refused  to  shape  a 
single  word." 

Casimir  lifted  a  sheet  of  paper  from  a  table  near 
him.  It  was  covered  with  characters.  "  I  feared 
as  much,"  he  said.  "  You  have  only  to  copy 
that."  .  .  . 

The  next  day  we  went  to  Washington.  Travel 
and  the  complete  change  of  scene  helped  to  restore 
me  both  in  mind  and  body.  With  every  day  the 
desire  to  live  and  to  elude  punishment  became 
stronger.  I  felt  both  craft  and  antagonism  assert 
themselves  within  me.  My  remorse  must  be  death 
less,  but  life  with  its  incessant  sting  was  now  vastly 
preferable  to  exposure,  obloquy,  and  a  shameful 
end.  Life,  too,  with  Ada!  That  would  temper 
every  guilty  dream,  every  secret  throe,  every  or 
deal  of  suspense,  every  qualm  of  disquietude,  with 
a  new  lenitive  element.  The  sun  would  never 
shine  again  for  me  as  of  old,  but  it  would  shine  on 
her,  and  therefore  I  craved  not  to  be  shut  from  its 
beams.  Then,  too,  there  were  other  reasons  for 
living,  even  fighting  to  live.  Years  might  yet  be 
spared  to  me.  What  enormity  of  expiation  might 
I  not  attain  in  them !  Men  had  existed  before 
now  with  skeletons  in  their  closets  as  bony  and 
grim  as  mine.  They  had  died  at  last  with  the 
world's  respect  and  honor.  I  had  rare  talents, 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  355 

the  art  of  winning  esteem  and  affection  with  ease. 
Why  should  I  not  some  day  pass  from  earth  with 
the  consciousness  that  I  had  offset  against  one 
great  crime  a  thousand  acts  of  goodness  to  my 
fellow-men? 

The  political  atmosphere  of  Washington  helped 
to  kindle  my  new  hope.  Of  course  I  saw  nothing 
of  its  purely  social  side,  but  this  one  could  easily 
imagine  as  being  vivacious,  interesting  and  unique. 
I  forgot  my  former  prejudice  against  mixing  in 
the  politics  of  my  native  land.  The  magnificent 
marble  Capitol,  whose  faults  have  been  so  unjustly 
exaggerated  and  whose  majesty  is  beyond  dispute 

—  the  Houses  of  Congress  —  the  stately  squares, 
parks  and  avenues  of  this  noble  city,  all  won  and 
invited    me.     What    should   prevent    my  shining 
here  as  a  true  statesman  at  some  future  time  ?     If 
corruption  reigned  in  this  stronghold  of  our  re 
public,  so  much  the  better  reason  why  a  man  of 
fearless  virtue   and   reformatory  purpose   should 
bend  his  best  energies  toward  ameliorating  meas 
ures.     And  why  should  not  I  be  such  a  man? 

All  this  time  I  was  training  and  steadying  myself 
to  meet  what  I  knew  must  sooner  or  later  arrive, 

—  in  case  detection  should  not  plunge  me  into  open 
odium  and  retribution.     I  watched  the  daily  jour 
nals  for  some  news  regarding  him.    Casimir  watched 
them  too.     Meanwhile  I  wrote  repeatedly  to  Ada, 
and  received  from  her  the  most  loving  replies.     I 
had  grown  capable  of  playing  the  role  which  hence- 


356  TIIE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

forth,  at  any  hazard,  I  must  play  with  firmness  and 
courage.  In  a  fortnight  something  like  the  old 
relations  were  re-established  between  Casimir  and 
myself.  He  ceased  to  uphold  and  to  fortify  me. 
He  saw  that  I  had  rallied  and  meant  no  surrender. 
Then,  as  he  thus  perceived,  he  retired  once  again 
into  his  former  place  of  dependence  and  submis 
sion.  It  was  I  who  now  meditated,  decided  and 
kept  myself  in  readiness  to  execute.  The  femi 
nine  part  of  his  nature  became  re-ascendant ;  he 
looked  to  me  for  counsel,  not  I  to  him.  But  for 
the  first  time  I  now  discovered  the  effects  of  what 
he  had  been  called  upon  to  undergo.  The  wear 
and  tear  upon  his  sensitive  soul  had  been  fright 
ful.  He  was  given  to  nervous  seizures  which  he 
tried  in  vain  to  conceal  from  me ;  he  lost  flesh  and 
appetite ;  he  dropped  into  brooding,  dismal,  silent 
moods,  from  which  a  word  of  mine  would  startle 
him  with  a  smile  that  was  forced  and  painful.  I 
observed  all  this  with  keen  solicitude. 

"  You  are  yourself  at  last !  "  he  said  to  me,  one 
day.  "  I  am  so  glad,  Otho,  so  glad  !  " 

"  And  3rou,"  I  answered,  "  are  losing  all  the 
force  that  once  sustained  me." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that,"  he  said.  "  As  long  as 
I  served  you  with  it  while  it  lasted,  what  matter 
if  it  leaves  me  now  ?  " 

I  think  it  was  on  the  following  day  that  I  showed 
him  a  paragraph  in  a  certain  Washington  journal, 
copied  from  a  New- York  one. 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  357 

He  read  the  lines  with  intent  care.  "  Well  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  You  see,"  I  said.  "  He  is  merely  reported  to 
be  missing.  No  one  seems  to  know  of  the  truth. 
There  is  not  the  slightest  suggestion  of  it.  The 
date  of  his  final  appearance  in  New-York  is  given, 
and  nothing  more." 

"  Yes,"  said  Casimir. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  I  said,  after  a  long  pause. 
"  To  remain  away  longer  would  be  worse  than  idle. 
Mrs.  Dorian  is  still  at  Rockside.  We  will  join  her 
there." 

"  Join  her  there  ?  "  repeated  Casimir,  with  a  start. 

"  Yes.     Are  you  unwilling  ?  " 

"  Unwilling  ?  I  ?  "  he  returned,  hastily.  "  Oh, 
no ;  far  from  it.  What  made  you  imagine  that  I 
was  ?  " 

"Then  we  will  leave  Washington  to-night,"  I 
said. 


358  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 


XVI. 

WE  reached  Rockside  on  the  following  evening. 
Mrs.  Dorian  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  welcome  at  our 
return.  She  at  once  noticed  Casimir's  altered 
looks,  and  expressed  fears  that  his  trip  had  been 
the  reverse  of  beneficial.  We  were  both  prepared 
for  some  reference  to  her  missing  nephew,  and  be 
fore  we  had  been  twenty  minutes  in  her  company 
the  reference  came. 

"  My  dear  boys,"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  have 
you  heard  this  odd  story  about  Foulke  Dorian?" 

"  We  read  of  it  in  the  newspapers,"  I  said. 

"  Is  it  not  mysterious  ?  "  she  pursued.  "  Nearly, 
three  weeks  have  passed  since  he  was  seen." 

"  Who  last  saw  him  ?  "  I  heard  Casimir  say,  but 
I  did  not  turn  my  eyes  upon  his  face.  The  voice 
with  which  he  put  the  question  seemed  even  and 
tranquil. 

"  A  gentleman  at  his  club  in  New- York,"  replied 
Mrs.  Dorian.  "  That  was  about  five  o'clock  on  the 
afternoon  of  September  tenth.  This  gentleman 
exchanged  a  few  words  with  him  before  he  left  the 
club.  He  appeared  in  his  usual  frame  of  mind, 
and  said  nothing  about  any  contemplated  journey." 


TIIE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  359 

"  Was  he  on  good  terms  with  his  father  ?  "  I 
inquired. 

"Excellent.  The  papers  declared  so,  at  least. 
I  wrote  yesterday  to  my  brother-in-law." 

"  You  wrote  ?  "  I  quickly  broke  in. 

"  Yes.  It  was  only  decent,  you  know.  I  ex 
pressed  my  warm  sympathy,  and  my  hopes  that 
the  unhappy  affair  would  speedily  be  cleared  up. 
It  was  a  mere  bit  of  ceremony,  of  course.  And  yet 
it  was  performed  in  all  sincerity.  How  can  one 
help  being  sincere  on  such  a  subject?  Foulke, 
whatever  were  his  faults,  was  not  a  dissipated 
fellow,  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  it  were 
a  case  of  secret  assassination.  These  horrors  are 
occurring  every  year  in  all  great  cities." 

I  wanted  to  test  my  own  aplomb  and  self-com 
mand.  "  His  known  wealth  and  his  regularity  of 
habits  would  certainly  point  to  some  such  ugly 
explanation,"  I  said.  And  then  I  looked  full  at 
Casimir.  "  Do  you  not  agree  with  me  ?  "  I  con 
tinued. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "  Still,  many  men  have 
disappeared,  like  this,  from  wholly  opposite  causes. 
Nous  verrons" 

"  Detectives  are  at  work,"  resumed  Mrs.  Dorian, 
"  and  it  is  possible  that  some  clew  may  be  found  at 
any  hour.  Pray  Heaven  that  if  there  has  been  foul 
play  the  miserable,  whoever  he  is,  may  be  brought 
to  justice ! " 

Did  my  heart  sink  or  my  pulse   leap  at  this? 


3GO  TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

No ;  I  was  so  thoroughly  equipped  for  it ;  I  had 
already  heard  it  so  often  in  imagination.  Worse 
would  be  needed  to  discompose  me,  to  strike  me 
with  the  least  thrill  of  real  panic.  .  .  And  how 
long  must  I  wait  before  this  "  worst "  might  actu 
ally  occur?  Would  it  occur  at  all?  There  lay 
the  most  poignant  torment  of  my  position.  I 
might  bear  severe  shocks  with  coolness.  But  this 
waiting  for  the  shocks  to  come  —  would  there  not 
be  a  slow,  inexorable  strain  in  that  which  no  sharp 
jeopardy  or  menace  could  equal  ?  The  battle  is  so 
slight  a  thing,  with  its  heat  and  hurry,  beside  the 
silence  and  uncertainty  that  precede  it !  ... 

I  did  not  see  Ada  that  night.  Casimir  and  I 
talked  in  whispers  long  after  Mrs.  Dorian  had  re 
tired.  He  promised  me  then  that  he  would  go  to 
a  certain  spot  on  the  shore  early  to-morrow.  I  did 
not  like  his  look,  his  voice,  his  eye,  his  paleness, 
as  we  separated.  This  return  to  Rockside  was 
evidently  telling  upon  him.  We  must  leave  the 
place  within  a  few  days  at  the  farthest.  Mrs. 
Dorian  was  anxious  to  go ;  and  as  for  the  Gram- 
erceys,  she  had  told  me  that  evening  that  Ada  had 
formed  plans  to  live  modestly  in  New- York  with 
her  father  during  the  remainder  of  autumn  and 
the  coming  winter.  The  Colonel's  condition  was 
far  from  promising,  and  he  had  taken  a  dislike  to 
the  cottage,  which  he  declared  damp  and  full  of 
draughts.  I  am  sure  that  Mrs.  Dorian  wondered 
at  my  not  going  to  Ada  before  the  next  day.  Her 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  361 

suspicion  that  some  quarrel  had  occurred  between 
us  became  manifest  as  the  evening  grew  late.  But 
a  suspicion  of  this  sort  was  rather  desirable  than 
otherwise.  To-morrow  would  dispel  it,  when  she 
saw  my  former  devotion  perpetuated.  As  it  was, 
I  could  not  go  forth  into  the  darkness,  even  if  I 
took  the  inland  way  toward  the  cottage.  At  least 
for  one  night  I  must  yield  to  the  horror  of  thus 
going,  and  remain  indoors.  Hereafter  I  would 
conquer  it  if  it  still  continued.  But  for  this  one 
night  —  the  first  I  had  experienced  since  the  com 
mission  of  my  crime  —  I  dared  not,  I  could  not,  I 
would  not  go  ! 

On  the  next  day,  in  the  morning,  I  saw  Ada. 
She  threw  her  arms  about  my  neck  and  gave  way 
to  a  burst  of  tears  as  we  met.  But  they  were 
happy  tears.  Her  love,  shown  with  so  sweet  an 
abandonment,  was  a  surpassing  joy  to  me.  It  gave 
me  fresh  vigor  of  hope,  fresh  vitality  of  defiance 
against  all  that  the  future  might  hold  in  store. 
How  could  I  be  really  vile  when  such  a  love  paid 
me  such  a  greeting  ?  .  .  . 

The  brief  autumn  afternoon  was  nearly  spent 
when  I  returned  to  Rockside.  Never,  since  that 
woful  night,  had  I  felt  so  brave  and  calm  as  now. 
I  longed  for  some  stirring  development  to  try  me 
and  prove  the  mettle  of  my  resistance.  The  love 
of  this  pure  and  adorable  woman  was  something 
not  only  to  live  for,  but  to  breast  immense  ad 
versity  for  as  well.  It  should  be  talismanic  with 


302  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

me  in  the  exercise  of  whatever  transcendent  tact 
and  cunning  events  might  demand.  For  if  the 
truth  ever  transpired,  it  would  drag  her  down  with 
myself,  in  one  common  calamity.  By  saving  my 
own  life,  therefore,  I  would  be  saving  her  happi 
ness.  Joy  was  in  that  thought,  and  immeasurable 
incentive  also. 

"  The  days  without  you  dragged  so  drearily, 
Otho,"  she  had  told  me  as  we  sat  together.  "  I 
think  I  needed  your  absence  to  make  me  com 
pletely  conscious  of  how  dear  you  had  become." 

Of  course  we  spoke  of  Foulke  Dorian.  I  my 
self  first  referred  to  him.  There  seemed  a  brutal 
daring  in  this  voluntary  mention  of  the  man  I  had 
killed,  but  until  I  did  thus  mention  him  a  doubt 
of  my  own  equipoise  had  perforce  to  haunt  and 
dispirit  me. 

On  reaching  the  house  I  went  straightway  in 
search  of  Casimir.  I  found  him  in  his  studio, 
seated  before  one  of  his  canvases,  brush  in  hand. 

"You  have  been  painting,  Casimir?"  I  said. 

He  gave  me  a  smile  that  compared  almost  spec 
trally  with  his  smile  of  the  past. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  paint,"  he  said.  "  But 
somehow  I  cannot  seize  this  subject  with  the  old 
power.  It  evades  me.  You  remember  what  I 
wanted  to  make  of  it  before?"  (That  pregnant 
little  word,  as  softly  pronounced  by  him,  had  a 
volume  of  meaning  for  me.)  "  See  —  this  Mag 
dalen  .  .  she  was  to  have  wakened  from  her  first 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  363 

dream  of  Christ.  There  was  to  have  been  sorrow 
on  her  face,  but  a  heavenly  comfort,  too.  And 
now  I  have  put  only  despair  there.  Look,  Otho, 
the  lips  will  not  curve  aright ;  they  are  bitter  in 
spite  of  me.  And  the  eyes  —  I  wanted  them  to 
melt  in  unshed  tears,  but  they  are  still  so  hard, 
so  hopeless !  " 

He  tossed  his  brush  away  and  rose.  As  he  did 
so  the  words  of  Ada  were  re-uttered  within  my 
memory : 

"  He  is  a  sort  of  Poe  touched  with  sunshine. 
And  yet,  if  some  great  grief  or  disaster  came  to 
him,  would  not  the  sunshine  die  out  of  all  that  he 
did?  Might  not  his  work  turn  grim  and  even 
malign?  "  .  . 

"  Casimir,"  I  exclaimed,  going  up  to  him  and 
grasping  his  arm,  "you  must  paint  no  more  at 
present.  It  will  be  torture  for  me  to  see  a  genius 
like  yours  fail  and  seem  almost  to  perish,  because 
I  (God  help  me  ! )  have  "  — 

"  Hush  !  "  he  broke  in,  w.ith  an  affrighted  start. 
"  What  are  you  saying,  Otho  ?  And  so  loudly, 
too !  Some  servant  might  be  passing.  And  do 
not  imagine  it  is  that !  You  are  wrong,  wholly 
wrong,  mon  ami. " 

"I  am  right,"  I  answered  him. 

He  started  again,  and  looked  at  me  fixedly.  Then 
he  took  both  of  my  hands  in  his,  slowly  pressing 
them.  "I  will  do  as  you  advise,"  he  said,  in 
measured  tones,  as  though  convinced  by  me.  "  I 


364  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

will  paint  no  more  for  the  present.  I  promise 
you.  .  .  Yes,  it  is  surely  best."  .  . 

A  little  later  I  asked  him :  "  Did  you  go  to  the 
shore,  Casimir?" 

He  had  seated  himself  again ;  he  was  staring 
down  at  the  carpet ;  he  seemed  not  to  have  heard 
my  question,  for  he  neither  lifted  his  eyes  nor 
answered  it.  I  repeated  it,  and  then  he  met  my 
gaze.  His  voice,  as  he  now  addressed  me,  was 
nearly  inaudible,  and  combined  with  his  manner 
to  betray  a  vacillation,  a  nerveless,  forceless 
insecurity,  which  I  had  never  till  this  moment 
witnessed  in  him. 

"  Otho,"  he  faltered,  "I  —  I  went  as  far  as  that 
dead  tree.  You  know  where  it  stands — just  mid 
way  between  our  stretch  of  shore  and  that  which 
fronts  the  cottage.  .1  —  I  went  as  far  as  that,  and 
then  I  —  I  could  go  no  farther.  A  weight  came 
upon  my  limbs,  a  freezing  sensation  filled  my 
blood  —  I  was  a  coward,  no  doubt,  but  I  —  I  could 
not  walk  one  step  farther ! "  .  . 

"  No  matter,"  I  said  soothingly.  I  was  stand 
ing  at  his  side,  and  I  put  my  hand  on  his  beautiful, 
silky  blond  hair,  smoothing  it.  How  strange  that 
I  should  speak  to  him  in  the  placid  voice  I  then 
used  !  What  a  complete  reversing  of  our  previous 
acts  and  words !  You  would  have  thought  that  he, 
not  I,  had  been  the  wearer  of  this  deadly  and 
baleful  yoke.  "  Never  make  the  effort  again,"  I 
.continued,  in  the  same  consoling  tones,  "if  it 


TUE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  365 

affects  you  like  this.  There  is,  after  all,  no  need 
of  going  to  the  hateful  spot  .  .  no  need  whatever." 

Five  days  passed —  crisp,  brilliant,  October  days. 
On  the  shore  in  front  of  Rockside  there  was  a 
cluster  of  sumacs.  I  could  see  them  from  the 
piazza,  from  the  windows,  from  whatever  place 
on  the  lawns  I  happened  to  glance  seaward.  They 
seemed  to  intrude  themselves  on  my  vision,  to 
follow  me,  to  whisper  "  Look."  They  were  a  vivid 
red ;  they  had  the  hue  of  blood.  I  never  went 
near  the  shore. 

I  saw  Ada  constantly.  She  noticed  nothing 
novel  or  different  from  of  old  in  my  demeanor.  On 
seeing  Casimir  she  was  almost  shocked  by  the 
change  in  him.  For  myself,  so  relentless  was  the 
pressure  upon  nerves  and  brain  that  I  often  felt 
as  if  I  were  haggard  of  cheek  and  hollow  of  voice. 
I  knew  well  enough  what  suspense  would  do  with 
both  visage  and  conduct  if  I  continued  many  days 
longer  in  this  accursed  place.  But  we  had  already 
planned  an  early  departure.  The  Gramerceys  were 
to  leave  when  we  did.  Mrs.  Dorian  had  begun  her 
preparations  for  departure. 

"  Poor  Casimir,"  she  said  to  me  pityingly.  "  He 
has  contracted  some  malarial  trouble  here.  It 
must  be  that." 

"  Perhaps,"  I  answered. 

My  dreams,  when  I  now  slept  at  night,  were 
terrific.  .  .  I  would  wake  from  them  dripping  with 
clammy  sweat.  Sometimes  I  lay  listening  for  the 


366  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

sound  of  footsteps  at  the  door  of  my  bed-chamber 
after  I  had  thus  waked.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  must  have  shrieked  wildly  in  this  mockery  of 
slumber,  and  that  all  the  inmates  of  the  house 
had  been  roused.  But  worse  than  such  dreams 
were  those  of  rapture  and  exquisite  peace  with 
Ada  as  my  wife.  I  would  wake  from  these  to 
the  anguish  of  the  actual !  And  then  my  dim 
room,  with  its  familiar  appointments,  became  an 
abode  of  misery  beyond  all  that  the  most  antic 
fantasies  of  nightmare  could  make  it !  Calm,  still, 
shadowy,  it  racked  and  tortured  me  with  what 
really  was  ! 

It  was  marvellous  that  I  held  out  physically  as 
I  did  during  these  five  days,  each  one  divided 
from  the  other  by  a  night  of  horror.  Again  and 
again  I  saw  Casimir  furtively  watch  me,  and  read 
in  his  altered,  dimmed,  lustreless  eyes  astonish 
ment  at  my  serenity  and  control. 

I  saw  the  newspapers  regularly.  Each  day 
there  would  be  some  notice  in  them  of  the  missing 
man.  But  no  clew  had  yet  been  found.  The 
detectives  were  still  at  work,  but  entirely  without 
avail. 

On  one  of  these  momentous  days  —  the  third 
of  the  series  —  a  distressing  and  horrible  thing 
occurred.  Though  I  did  not  even  fancy  so  then, 
it  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  —  like  the  first 
stroke  of  a  knell  to  the  being  whom  it  vitally  and 
wretchedly  concerned. 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  367 

Ada  had  come  to  Rockside,  and  after  holding 
a  little  talk  with  Casimir  she  requested  to  be 
shown  once  more  the  contents  of  his  studio. 

"But  I  have  done  nothing,  Mademoiselle,"  he 
answered  sadly,  "  since  you  last  saw  my  pictures. 
You  are  welcome  to  look  upon  the  old  work  again, 
however,  if  you  so  desire." 

Ada  did  desire,  and  signified  her  wish.  "  He 
is  miserably  unwell,  I  should  say,"  she  whispered 
to  me,  as  we  passed  up  stairs  behind  Casimir. 
"See  how  he  has  lost  that  old  springing  step 
of  his !  Does  he  ever  complain  to  you,  Otho,  of 
feeling  ill  ?  " 

"  Never,5'  I  said. 

"  You  have  fairly  won  your  leisure,"  she  said  a 
little  later  to  the  young  artist,  while  moving  about 
his  studio.  "You  have  made  yourself  a  hand 
some  pile  of  laurels  to  rest  on ;  you  can  now  afford 
to  be  idle." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  call  them  laurels," 
said  Casimir,  with  one  of  his  graceful  bows. 

"  And  Otho's  portrait  ?  "  Ada  continued.  "  Does 
that  remain  unfinished  still  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

"  Casimir  will  finish  it  when  he  is  better  —  more 
en  veine"  I  said. 

"Perhaps  you  are  too  much  alone  when  you 
paint,"  said  Ada,  looking  at  my  friend  in  her 
frank,  sweet,  interested  way.  "  There  would  be 
something  delightfully  social,  I  should  think,  in 


368  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

your  giving  Otho  a  sitting,  for  example,  while 
Mrs.  Dorian  or  myself  also  occupied  the  studio." 

Casimir  seemed  to  muse  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  walked  rapidly  toward  a  portion  of  the  room 
in  which  my  portrait  was  placed.  A  decisive 
change  now  became  apparent  in  his  manner;  his 
native  gayety  seemed  to  break  from  repression. 

"  We  will  do  as  you  say,  Mademoiselle,"  he 
exclaimed.  "  We  will  do  it  now." 

"  Now  !  "  I  swiftly  retorted. 

"  Yes,"  said  Casimir.  In  a  trice  he  had  placed 
the  canvas  upon  his  easel,  which  stood  near  a 
bright  window.  "  I  will  see  what  I  can  do,"  he 
went  on.  "  I  will  see  whether  I  cannot  give  Otho 
a  sitting  to-da}r." 

His  demeanor  had  the  buoyancy  of  former 
times.  He  motioned  for  me  to  seat  myself,  and 
I  did  so.  Rapidly  he  mixed  a  few  colors  on  his 
palette.  Ada  sank  into  a  chair  at  my  side. 

Casimir  went  to  work  with  apparent  zest.  The 
features  of  the  portrait  were  perfectly  limned ; 
the  resemblance  was  already  striking.  He  painted 
with  vigorous  strokes  for  several  minutes,  after 
looking  at  me,  and  in  a  way  that  presently  im 
pressed  me  as  wild  and  unnatural. 

Suddenly  his  look  changed  to  one  of  extreme 
dismay  and  agitation.  Before  I  could  anticipate 
the  action,  he  had  dashed  his  brush  upon  the  floor 
and  sunk  into  a  seat,  covering  his  face  with  both 
hands. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  369 

Ada  rose  flurriedly.     "  He  is  ill,"  she  cried. 

I  also  rose  and  went  toward  him.  But  as  I 
reached  his  side  he  uncovered  his  face. 

"  I  cannot  paint  you ! "  rang  his  voice,  in  shrill, 
plaintive  tones.  Then  it  dropped  so  that  I  alone 
heard  it.  "  You  are  not  the  same  to  me  as  you 
were  !  I  see  you  as  I  saw  you  then  !  I  " — 

The  next  instant  I  had  placed  my  hand  over  his 
mouth.  "  Casimir  !  "  I  said. 

Ada  was  observing  intently.  As  his  eyes  met 
mine  a  shiver  convulsed  him,  and  he  pointed 
toward  the  portrait.  Then  his  gaze  drooped,  and 
his  head  also.  In  another  moment,  however,  he 
made  a  quick,  violent  gesture,  such  as  a  man 
might  make  who  struggles  against  a  swoon,  and 
staggered  to  his  feet. 

"Pardon  me,  Mademoiselle,"  he  stammered  to 
Ada  in  French.  "I  —  I  am  truly  unwell.  I  —  I 
tried  to  paint  Otho,  and  see  what  I  have  done  !  " 

He  was  motioning  toward  the  portrait.  But 
Ada's  eyes  did  not  follow  the  waving  of  his  hand. 
She  was  regarding  me  in  evident  consternation. 

"  Why  did  you  try  to  stop  him  from  speaking, 
Otho  ?  "  she  questioned.  "  Why  did  you  put  your 
hand  against  his  mouth  ?  " 

I  hurried  toward  her.  "  Ada,  can  you  ask 
this  ?  "  I  said.  "  Foolish  hysteria  in  a  man  is  not 
as  it  is  with  you  women  .  .  I  did  not  wish  Casi 
mir  to  make  himself  absurd,  ridiculous." 

She  inclined  her  head ;   an  expression  of  sym- 


370  THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

pathy  crossed  her  features.  She  turned  toward 
the  portrait,  clearly  visible  from  where  she  stood. 

"  Ah  !  "  broke  from  her  lips.  "  He  has  made  it 
so  different,  Otho  !  It  is  not  you.  It  is  "  — 

She  paused  abruptly,  for  just  then  Casimir 
seized  a  brush,  dipped  it  hastily  in  some  dark 
paint,  and  literally  slashed  it  across  the  canvas. 
A  laugh  sounded  from  him  immediately  after 
ward. 

"  It  is  a  failure !  "  he  cried  —  "a  horrible  fail 
ure  !  I  will  do  it  again  when  I  —  I  am  in  better 
mood."  Then  he  flung  this  brush  away,  as  he  had 
done  the  other,  and  re-seated  himself. 

"Did  you  see  it?"  murmured  Ada,  catching 
my  hand. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  He  —  he  made  it  so  unlike  you,"  she  continued. 
"  He  gave  the  face  a  horrible  expression  .  .  What 
does  it  mean,  Otho?" 

"It  means  that  Casimir  is  ill  —  not  himself,"  I 
responded.  "  Come." 

I  at  once  led  her  from  the  studio.  .  .  It  may 
have  been  an  hour  later  when  I  returned  thither. 
Casimir  sat  in  the  same  chair,  with  a  dejected 
attitude.  I  went  up  to  him  and  shook  him 
roughly  by  the  shoulder. 

"  What  wretched  folly  is  this  ?  "  I  asked  of  him. 

He  burst  into  tears.  I  stood  beside  him  as  he 
wept.  Presently  he  said,  looking  up  at  me : 

"  Forgive   me,  Otho !     I  —  I   thought  I   could 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  371 

paint  you  as  you  are.  But  the  shadows  gather  so 
thickly,  now,  whenever  I  touch  brush  to  canvas. 
I  —  I  saw  you,  in  spite  of  myself,  as  you  were  that 
niffht!" 

I  leaned  over  him  and  spoke  with  my  lips  close 
at  his  ear.  "Casimir,"  I  said,  "you  must  go  from 
this  place.  You  must  go  at  once." 

"I  —  I  cannot  go  without  you,"  he  murmured, 
weakly.  "  I  cannot  be  alone.  I  —  I  will  go  when 
you  go  —  not  before." 

"  Be  it  so,"  I  answered,  after  a  pause.  "  On 
Monday  we  will  all  leave.  But  until  then  be 
guarded.  I  implore  you,  Casimir  —  do  you  under 
stand  ?  " 

"Yes!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke  the  word. 
His  eyes  flashed,  and  he  gave  sign  of  being  his  old 
self. 

"  I  trust  you,"  I  said,  grasping  his  hand.  "  But 
beware!  Your  nerves  are  unstrung  —  you  are  ill 
—  reckless  fits  like  these  carry  peril  —  if  you  think 
another  of  them  may  seize  you  "  — 

He  interrupted  me  with  an  almost  scoffing  toss 
of  his  disengaged  hand.  "Nothing  more  will 
occur,"  he  said.  "  It  was  merely  the  painting.  I 
should  have  kept  my  promise  to  you.  I  broke  it, 
and  you  saw  the  result.  I  will  not  paint  again 
till  you  bid  me." 

"  Do  not,"  I  said. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  this  series,  while  I  sat  alone 


372  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

in  the  breakfast  room  before  an  untasted  meal, 
having  appeared  later  there  than  either  Casimir 
or  my  guardian,  a  stern  shock  came  to  me. 

Mrs.  Dorian  entered  and  at  once  laid  her  hand 
on  my  shoulder.  "  Otho,"  she  said,  "  who  is  here, 
do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  "  I  asked,  steadying  myself  instantly. 

"  Steven  Dorian." 

I  rose.     "  He  comes  to  speak  of  his  son  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Why  does  he  come  here  ?  " 

"  He  has  an  idea  about  coming." 

"An  idea?" 

"Yes." 

"What  is  it?" 

"He  thinks  that  Foulke  was  last  seen  in  this 
place." 

I  gave  a  slow,  amazed  smile.  My  brain  was 
ice,  my  nerves  were  iron.  "  In  this  place  ?  "  I 
repeated.  "  How  absurd !  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  In  the  sitting-room.  Will  you  come  and  see 
him?" 

"  Did  he  ask  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.     He  has  demanded  to  see  you." 

"  Is  he  alone  ?  " 

"  No.  A  man  is  with  him  —  a  detective.  And 
a  boy  —  a  lad  from  the  village." 

"  Really  ?    And  pray  what  do  they  all  want  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  conception.  It  is  insulting  for 
Monsieur  Steven  to  come  here  like  this.  But  he 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  373 

is  so  wretched  in  appearance  —  so  evidently  an 
invalid  —  that  one  can  forgive  him  almost  when 
one  looks  at  him." 

I  looked  at  him  soon  afterward.  He  was  seated 
as  Mrs.  Dorian  and  I  presently  entered  the  sitting- 
room,  but  a  man  and  a  boy  stood  on  either  side  of 
him.  The  man  was  a  slender,  beardless  person, 
quietly  and  darkly  dressed.  I  do  not  know  that 
it  would  be  possible  for  any  member  of  humanity 
to  make  himself  more  inconspicuous,  more  ordi 
nary,  than  this  man  had  somehow  succeeded  in 
doing.  Nature  had  certainly  aided  the  effort,  if 
effort  it  was.  A  sallow,  mottled  complexion  and 
a  dull,  sleepy  eye  seemed  to  include  every  charac 
teristic  of  his  visage.  Even  to  mention  these  traits 
of  it  was  to  pass  undue  comment.  Everything 
about  his  figure  bespoke  modesty,  retirement,  a 
tendency  to  escape  observation.  The  very  lines 
of  his  coat  and  trousers  indicated  personal  seques 
tration  ;  they  drooped  and  sagged  as  if  chary  of 
contact  with  more  social  broadcloth.  'What  a 
man  to  slip  through  a  crowd  unnoticed,'  I  thought, 
on  seeing  him.  '  What  a  man  to  watch  without 
being  watched ! ' 

The  boy  was  a  ruddy  little  fellow  of  about  ten. 
He  looked  somewhat  confused,  and  was  plainly 
stupid. 

Mr.  Steven  Dorian  sat  between  the  two,  as  I 
have  stated.  He  bore  every  sign  of  having  risen 
from  a  bed  of  illness.  Mrs.  Dorian's  past  descrip- 


374  THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

tion  had  not  been  exaggerated.  He  was  cadav 
erous,  hollow-eyed,  chalky  in  his  pallor,  and  so 
pitifully  bowed  down  as  to  seem  almost  the  size  of 
a  dwarf.  I  should  never  have  dreamed  of  recog 
nizing  him.  He  grasped  a  stout  stick  with  a  big 
wooden  handle,  and  his  hand  was  so  outlined  upon 
its  ponderous  hilt  that  its  claw-like  effect  had  a 
grotesque  saliency.  He  rapped  the  stick  upon 
the  floor  as  he  saw  me,  and  his  rheumy  eyes  gave 
forth  a  faint,  somnolent  twinkle.  His  face  was  so 
lined  and  wan  that  it  might  well  have  been  a 
ghost's.  While  I  paused  before  him  he  said  in 
a  jerky,  asthmatic  voice : 

"You're  Otho  Claud?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Your  name  isn't  Claud  a  bit.  I  know.  My 
son  Foulke  knew  it,  too.  Both  knew  it.  Been  a 
fraud.  Son  of  that  man  Clauss  who  was  hanged 
for  murdering  his  wife  years  ago." 

I  did  riot  flinch.  "  Otho  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Dorian, 
coming  close  to  me.  "  He  said  this  before.  I  can 
not  think  how  he  found  it  out.  I  "  — 

"  Let  it  pass,  madame,"  I  broke  in,  with  a  voice 
as  cold  and  regular  as  human  lips  ever  used. 
I  fixed  my  eyes  calmly  upon  Mr.  Steven  Dorian. 
"  Did  you  come  here  to  tell  me  this  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  Didn't  come  here  to  tell  you 
that.  Came  here  for  a  different  reason." 

"  Ah  ?  I  should  have  supposed  otherwise  from 
your  greeting." 


THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  375 

"  Would  you,  indeed  ? "  He  was  suddenly 
seized  with  a  fit  of  coughing  that  lasted  for  some 
time  and  seemed  to  rack  and  half  shatter  his  feeble 
frame.  T]he  detective  bent  over  him  and  took 
him  by  both  shoulders  while  the  paroxysm  lasted. 
When  it  had  lessened,  he  continued,  still  gasping 
and  clearing  his  throat.  "Came,  Mr.  Clauss  — 
for  Clauss  is  your  real  name  —  to  ask  you  about 
my  son.  He  never  liked  you.  Enemies,  you  and 
he.  Told  me  so.  Yes,  sir,  told  me  so.  You  know 
better  'n  I  do  'bout  Colonel  Gramercey's  daughter. 
That  business  brought  me  here.  Thought  he 
might  have  come  up  to  this  place  that  night.  Find 
he  did.  .  .  .  Speak  up,  sonny." 

This  last  sentence  was  addressed  to  the  boy  at 
his  side.  He  gave  the  boy  a  sharp,  abrupt  poke 
with  one  of  his  emaciated  hands. 

The  boy  seemed  to  understand.  But  he  was 
very  embarrassed. 

"I  —  I  can't  speak  up  much,  sir,"  he  mur 
mured. 

Steven  Dorian  rapped  his  cane  irascibly  upon 
the  carpet.  "  Speak  up,"  he  cried  huskily.  "  Tell 
what  you  saw  on  the  tenth  of  September  last." 

"I  —  I  think  I  seen  the  gent'man  leave  the  cars 
at  'bout  eight  o'clock  that  night,"  stammered  the 
boy.  "I  —  I  guess  it  was  him." 

Suddenly  the  detective  slipped  round  to  the 
boy's  side.  His  neutral  face  for  an  instant  be 
came  assertive  and  intelligent. 


376  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

"  You  guess  ?  "  he  growled.  "  You  says  a  little 
time  ago  you  was  sure." 

"  Well,"  admitted  the  boy,  "  I'm  sure." 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  detective. 

"The  gent'man  left  the  cars,"  continued  the 
boy.  "  I  seen  him  at  the  deepow.  I'd  seen  him 
afore.  He  come  here  by  the  train  a  good  spell 
ago  —  I  guess  'twas  some  time  in  August.  He 
asked  me  the  short  cut  to  the  shore  an'  I  give 
him  the  pints  'bout  th'  ole  Harrison  road.  I  went 
with  'm  's  far  as  Nickleses'  ole  pull-down  shanty. 
Then  I  stopped  an'  was  goiii'  to  leave  him.  But 
he  give  me  fifty  cents  then,  an'  a  letter  to  take, 
to  the  small  cottage,  nigh  this  house  —  the  one  as 
Mr.  Lambert's  folks  used  to  live  in.  I  took  the 
letter,  an'  give  it  to  a  young  lady  as  come  to 
the  door.  That  was  afternoon.  But  'twas  dark  the 
next  time  I  see  the  gent'man,  gettin'  off  the  cars. 
I  guess  it  was  him,  but  I  ain't  certain  sure.  'T 
looked  wonderful  like  him  if  't  wasn't." 

"  Otho,"  now  struck  in  Mrs.  Dorian,  turning  to 
me  with  much  smothered  indignation,  "do  you 
quite  see  why  we  should  be  subjected  to  this  sort 
of  nonsense?" 

"  Frankly,  madame,"  I  said,  "  no." 

"  Excuse  me,  ma'am  and  sir,"  here  said  the  de 
tective  civilly,  "but  the  boy  was  recommended 
to  me  in  the  village  almost  as  soon  as  we  got  here 
and  made  inquiries.  He  said  then  he  did  see 
the  missing  man  —  that  is,  the  one  that  give  him  the 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  377 

letter  and  he  showed  the  road  to.  I  don't  mean 
to  say,"  continued  the  detective  self-correctingly, 
"that  he  ever  saw  Mr.  Foulke  Dorian.  But  his 
parents  thought,  from  the  description  in  the  news 
papers,  and  from  the  description  this  boy  had 
given  of  the  gentleman  who  paid  him  the  money, 
and  from  the  boy's  conviction  he'd  seen  the  same 
gentleman  afterward,  on  September  tenth,  that 
matters  pointed  one  way." 

"  And  you  have  merely  this  boy's  evidence  for 
thinking  that  Mr.  Dorian  left  the  cars  here  on  the 
evening  of  September  tenth  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  detective  nodded  dubiously.  "Yes,  sir," 
he  said.  "  That's  all." 

"And  you  come  here,"  I  pursued,  "to  tell  us 
that  Mr.  Dorian  did  visit  this  part  of  the  country 
on  that  special  night?  " 

"  Ridiculous  ! "  here  cried  Mrs.  Dorian,  address 
ing  her  brother-in-law.  "Steven,  what  is  the 
meaning  of  this  visit  ?  You  bring  your  gend'arme 
with  you  —  it  is  preposterous!  Do  you  think  we 
have  murdered  your  son,  and  hidden  him  some 
where  ?  " 

Steven  Dorian  answered  with  his  eyes  upon  my 
face,  "  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  there  is  something 
in  this  boy's  story." 

Mrs.  Dorian  gave  an  exasperated  sigh.  "  Who 
cares  about  this  boy's  story?  What  he  says  is 
the  merest  absurdity.  You  come  here  to  my 
house  with  a  disguised  policeman,  and  you  ask 


378  TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

questions  in  the  village  before  you  arrive  here. 
You  pick  up  a  boy  who  thinks  he  saw  a  gentle 
man  whom  he  showed  the  Harrison  road  to  weeks 
before  at  the  station,  once  again  on  the  tenth  of 
September.  Pray  who  was  the  gentleman  whom 
the  boy  first  saw  ?  Was  it  your  son  ?  " 

"  Yes !  "  exclaimed  Steven  Dorian,  with  another 
rap  of  his  cane,  but  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon 
me,  although  he  answered  his  sister-in-law.  "  It 
ivas  my  son.  Know  he  came  to  these  parts 
weeks  ago.  Told  me  so.  Saw  Miss  Gramercey,  too. 
Met  her  on  the  shore.  The  old  Colonel  didn't  like 
him,  for  some  reason  —  something  that  happened 
in  Paris.  Yes,  Foulke  did  come  here  once.  Why 
not  twice  ?  " 

"  You  look  at  me,  sir,  all  the  time  that  you 
address  Mrs.  Dorian,"  I  now  said.  "  Why  do 
you  do  this  ?  " 

Steven  Dorian  rose,  totteringly.  My  placid 
audacity  seemed  to  have  had  its  weight.  "  I  look 
at  you,  Mr.  Clauss,"  he  said,  while  accepting  on 
either  side  the  assistance  of  the  detective  and  the 
boy,  "  because  I  came  here  to  —  to  "  (another 
briefer  fit  of  coughing  seized  him) — "well,  to  re 
mind  you  that  you  —  you  hated  Foulke — always. 
Yes,  always." 

"  Steven  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Dorian,  "  what  are  you 
saying  ?  Do  you  dare  to  assert  that  my  Otho  — 
you  may  call  him  Claud  or  Clauss  as  you  see  fit  — 
had  anything  to  do  with  your  sou's  disappearance?" 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  379 

"Didn't  say  that"  answered  Steven  Dorian. 
"Came  here  to  look  'round.  Came  here  to  — 
to  "...  He  was  again  seized  with,  so  violent  a 
fit  of  coughing  that  he  had  to  put  both  arras 
about  the  detective's  neck  until  it  had  ceased. 

"  Guess  we  better  go  now,"  I  heard  the  detective 
whisper  in  his  ear. 

The  boy  nervously  and  covertly  plucked  the 
detective  by  the  coat  sleeve.  "  Yes,  let's  go," 
the  boy  said. 

I  now  spoke  again,  fixing  my  eyes  upon  Steven 
Dorian's  ghostly,  drooped  face.  I  exulted  in 
the  masterpiece  of  hypocrisy  that  I  might  here 
achieve.  "•  If  you  have  any  desire  to  search  the 
house  or  the  premises,  sir,  I  am  quite  at  your 
command." 

"  Otho  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorian,  now  almost  in 
a  passion,  "  this  insult  —  for  it  is  nothing  else  — 
has  already  gone  too  far !  .  .  .  Steven  Dorian," 
she  went  on,  addressing  her  brother-in-law,  "your 
visit  here  has  had  an  insulting  motive  only.  You 
and  I  were  never  friends,  as  you  well  know.  But 
I  pitied  your  ill  health  ;  I  was  sorry  for  your  suf 
fering.  Still,  I  can't  help  regretting  all  the  sym 
pathy  I  ever  gave  you,  when  I  find  you  searching 
in  my  house  for  signs  of  your  missing  son !  " 

Those  dim,  detestable  eyes  were  yet  upon  my 
face.  "  Will  you  take  some  refreshment,  sir,"  I 
asked,  "  before  you  leave  us  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  gruffly.     The  man  and  the  boy 


380  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

had  to  support  each  step  which  he  now  made  to 
ward  the  door.  As  he  passed  over  its  threshold, 
taking  his  eyes  from  ine,  I  felt  an  immense  relief. 
A  little  later  he  had  passed  into  the  outer  hall. 
Mrs.  Dorian  followed  the  trio.  Not  long  after 
ward  she  returned,  hurrying  to  my  side. 

"  Otho  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"Well,  madame." 

"  What  —  what  do  you  think  ?  They  are  taking 
the  shore  way.  They  are  walking  along  the  shore 
to  the  Harrison  road.  They  are  scanning  every 
bit  of  rock  as  if  they  expected  to  find  something. 
.  .  Is  it  not  too  abominable  ?  " 

My  blood  froze  then.  I  darted  from  the  room. 
I  gained  the  shore.  The  blood -red  sumachs 
seemed  to  gibe  at  me.  I  saw  them  while  moving 
slowly  toward  that  part  of  the  shore  which  skirted 
the  cottage  grounds.  Steven  Dorian  walked  very 
insecurely.  But  he  was  peering  downward,  and 
so  were  the  boy  and  the  man  who  still  supported 
him.  I  followed  them.  I  knew  that  there  was 
only  one  place  —  the  great  dark  crevice — where 
they  could  possibly  pause  with  any  positive  intent 
of  search. 

They  presently  reached  it.  I  saw  the  detective 
disengage  his  arm  from  Mr.  Dorian's  and  stoop 
downward.  He  was  peering  into  the  slim,  dusky 
chasm. 

The  world  stood  still  with  me  while  I  waited, 
watching. 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  381 


XVII. 

PRESENTLY  the  detective  raised  his  head.  He 
took  Mr.  Dorian's  arm  again.  The  three  disap 
peared  round  the  bend  of  the  shore.  It  was  their 
homeward  road.  They  were  going  back  to  the 
village  —  and  thence,  of  course,  to  the  train. 

I  took  out  my  watch.  It  was  half-past  eleven 
o'clock.  I  knew  that  no  train  went  to  New- 
York  till  fifteen  minutes  past  twelve.  They  must 
wait  at  the  station.  But  what  mattered  that? 
They  had  come ;  they  had  confronted  me ;  they 
had  searched  the  shore ;  they  had  chatted  and 
questioned  in  the  village.  But  nothing  had  come 
of  it.  Foulke  Dorian  had  taken  an  evening  train 
hither,  and  had  alighted  from  it  unnoticed,  as 
hundreds  of  people  do  in  the  dusk  at  railway 
stations  like  ours.  The  boy's  evidence  weighed 
nothing.  My  demeanor  had  been  perfect.  A  sus 
picion  had  brought  Steven  Dorian  to  this  spot, 
and  that  suspicion  had  ended  in  vapor.  No  real 
clew  existed.  The  body  lay  far  down  between  the 
stone  lips  of  that  crevice,  where  Casimir  had 
dropped  it.  I  was  safe. 

Safe  at  last ! 


382  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

It  had  all  passed  more  quickly  than  I  had  ex 
pected.  The  aching  uncertainty  was  at  an  end. 
A  huge  gap  in  the  evidence  existed.  Steven  Do 
rian  had  come  here  with  a  forlorn  hope.  Detec 
tive  science  had  exhausted  itself;  he  had  remem 
bered  his  son's  discovery  of  my  real  birth  :  he  had 
connected  that  discovery  with  some  possible  fierce 
feud.  But  my  magnificent  tranquillity  had  crushed 
his  last  doubt.  I  was  safe. 

Safe! 

I  drew  a  long  breath  of  infinite  relief.  I  sank 
down  upon  a  flat,  jutting  rock,  and  smiled  to  my 
own  thoughts  as  they  fell  like  balm  upon  my  wea 
ried,  over-taxed  brain.  To  be  safe  —  wholly  safe  ! 
how  exquisitely  comforting !  Casimir  had  done  his 
work  well  —  my  Casimir,  my  stanch,  devoted  friend ! 

Nothing  could  harm  me  now.  I  had  erred  ter 
ribly,  but  there  was  escape,  delivery.  Men  would 
never  know.  Only  Casimir  would  know,  and  his 
fidelity  was  more  loyal  in  its  permanence  than  the 
heaven  I  looked  at,  the  earth  I  rested  on.  Ada 
would  never  know !  We  would  marry  ;  children 
would  be  born  to  us ;  I  would  use  every  talent  to  win 
distinction  ;  the  grace  of  being  loved  by  my  kind 
should  be  added  to  the  grace  of  being  respected, 
honored,  revered  by  them.  All  would  be  well-- 
all  except  that  one  black  blot  on  my  conscience. 
But  the  years  would  help  to  cleanse  and  even 
whiten  that.  Why  not?  In  time  I  might  sleep 
lightly,  dream  pleasurably. 


- 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  383 

I  was  safe ! 

It  was  a  lost  clew.  He  had  come  here,  but  no 
one  had  really  seen  him  come.  Was  it  God's  work? 
I  had  been  wont,  in  the  old  Ziirich  days,  to  think 
and  speak  of  God  with  a  certain  scientific  coldness. 
Ought  I  to  do  so  hereafter?  What  combination 
of  circumstances  had  saved  me  except  some  merci 
ful  intelligence  apart  from  mere  blind  fate  ?  And 
I  was  saved.  It  was  all  ended  now. 

What  could  discover  and  convict  me  ?  No  power 
of  man.  The  detectives  had  tried  every  method, 
every  resource.  The  coming  of  Steven  Dorian,  in 
his  wretchedly  feeble  condition,  was  of  itself  con 
vincing  proof.  The  father  of  the  missing  man  had 
used  his  last  chance,  and  this  had  failed.  Let  him 
tell  the  world  that  I  was  the  son  of  Leopold 
Clauss !  What  did  I  care  ?  How  slight  the  pub 
licity  of  this  fact  seemed,  now  that  I  had  evaded 
the  darker  publicity  of  arrest  and  arraignment? 
Let  him  tell  it  if  he  chose.  Ada  would  still  cling 
to  me  and  marry  me.  Her  affection  had  been 
shown  me  by  a  new  lurid  light,  but  with  force  that 
made  its  deepest  springs  of  impulse  plain !  .  .  . 

I  must  have  bowed  my  head  while  sitting  there 
on  the  shore,  thinking  these  happy  thoughts  — 
supremely  happy  by  contrast  with  the  Gethsemane 
of  pain  that  I  recently  endured  — when  something 
seemed  to  touch  my  shoulder.  I  was  too  overjoyed 
to  do  more  than  just  notice  the  contact.  The  touch 
was  light  as  a  leaf,  and  if  a  leaf,  then  Nature  and  I 


384  TlIE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

were  reconciled  again,  for  escape  at  this  golden 
moment  meant  pardon,  and  pardon  meant  a  revivi 
fied  sense  in  all  that  was  beautiful  on  earth  ! 

But  the  touch  grew  heavier.  I  raised  my  head. 
Casimir  stood  beside  me.  I  sprang  to  my  feet.  I 
flung  my  arms  about  my  friend's  neck. 

"  Casimir,"  I  exclaimed,  "  it  is  all  over  !  I  am 
saved ! " 

He  had  not  returned  my  embrace.  I  now 
observed  that  his  face  was  deathly  white  and  that 
his  eyes  were  glittering  strangely. 

"  Saved  ?  "  he  repeated.     "  How  ?  " 

I  spoke  many  swift  words  to  him  ;  I  told  him  all 
that  had  lately  passed.  He  listened,  or  seemed  to 
listen,  with  intentness. 

"  You  see,"  I  finished,  "  this  misery  of  suspense 
is  over.  To-day  ends  it ;  you  know  why  ;  I  have 
told  you." 

"  Yes,  you  have  told  me,"  he  repeated. 

His  voice  was  cold,  his  tones  slow.  In  a  flash 
it  came  to  me  that  he  bore  every  semblance  of  a 
man  distraught.  "  You  have  told  me,"  he  contin 
ued,  "that  those  people  have  come  and  gone. 
They  know  nothing — they  have  seen  nothing." 

I  withdrew  my  arms  from  his  neck.  "  No,  Casi 
mir,"  I  said,  wonderingly. 

"  But  I  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  strange,  peering,  hos 
tile  look  straight  into  my  eyes. 

"  You,  Casimir?"  I  faltered. 

"  Yes,  /."     He  grasped  my  shoulder.     A  sort 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  385 

of  blaze  leapt  from  his  eyes  and  died.  "  Do  you 
think  that  I  can  bear  this  awful  secret  as  you  bear 
it  ?  If  you  think  that,  you  are  wrong  —  frightfully 
wrong !  I  heard  every  word  that  Steven  Dorian 
—  his  father  —  spoke  to  you.  I  was  listening  and 
I  heard.  You  did  it  all  well.  You  are  a  man 
of  such  accomplishment,  such  savoir  dire  —  you 
always  were,  Otho,  and  you  were  then.  .  But  what 
of  me  ?  " 

"You,  Casimir?" 

"  Yes  —  what  of  me  f  "  His  face  became  distorted 
with  fury.  He  receded  a  step  or  two  from  me, 
and  then,  looking  upon  him,  I  saw  that  change 
which  is  so  infinitely  worse  in  those  we  love  than 
the  white  change  of  death  itself.  I  saw  that  he 
was  mad.  And  I  realized  that  my  own  crime 
had  made  him  so. 

"  Shall  1  carry  this  horrid  secret  to  the  grave  ?  " 
He  pointed  at  me,  with  tremulous  yet  accusing 
forefinger,  as  madmen  point.  "  Shall  I  divulge 
nothing  because  you  are  without  conscience,  with 
out  remorse?  I  loved  you  once,  Otho,  but  I 
hate  and  damn  you  now !  And  I  will  tell  every 
thing  !  I  can  wash  my  soul  from  sin  by  no  other 
means! " 

He  shot  past  me,  and  then  paused.  One  of 
his  hands,  as  he  faced  me,  gropingly  reached  back 
ward.  "  The  body  lies  there  in  that  place  where  I 
dropped  it,"  he  went  on.  "  But  it  shall  not  lie 
there  much  longer.  I "  — 


386  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

At  this  I  flung  myself  upon  him.  "  Casimir," 
I  cried,  wildly,  "  in  God's  name  do  not  tell !  You 
loved  me  —  you  shielded  me  —  you  helped  me,  at 
that  other  time  !  Be  merciful  now !  It  is  not  you 
I  have  heard  !  It  is  some  devil  of  madness !  .  . 
Oh,  in  pity's  name  .  .  think  of  her  —  of  Ada  whom 
I  love  !  .  .  Casimir ! "  .  . 

He  had  wrested  himself  away  from  me.  I  stag 
gered  backward,  and  saw  him  dash  round  the 
clump  of  trees.  I  understood,  then.  Vengeance, 
justice  was  to  fall  upon  me  through  this  man. 
This  man  who  had  been  my  safeguard,  my  protec 
tive  angel,  my  absolute  and  infallible  source  of 
trust !  Through  his  madness  I  was  to  meet  my 
doom.  Not  Casimir  would  betray  me  —  not  my 
old  unswerving,  faithful  Casimir,  but  some  genius 
of  divine  wrath,  usurping  his  brain,  body  and  soul. 
By  this  ingress  —  the  one  of  all  others  least  imagined 
or  imaginable  —  the  penalty  of  my  crime  would' 
reach  me  ! 

I  moved  inland,  and  waited  there  behind  some 
trees.  I  had  no  thought  of  stopping  Casimir.  It 
would  be  like  trying  to  stop  fate  itself ;  for  he  had 
indeed  become  fate.  I  waited,  gazing  through  the 
trees  at  that  part  of  the  shore  where  the  gloomy 
fissure  could  plainly  be  seen.  I  knew  quite  well 
what  would  happen,  now ;  I  knew  as  well  as  if  I 
had  already  viewed  it.  And  presently  it  did  hap 
pen,  just  as  it  had  been  pictured  in  my  mind. 

Four  people  soon  turned  the  bend  in  the  shore. 


THE   CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD.  387 

Casimir  came  first ;  he  gesticulated  excitedly  as 
he  spoke,  though  I  was  too  far  off  to  hear  his 
words.  In  a  little  while  he  had  paused  beside  the 
crevice  in  the  rocks,  and  pointed  downward.  As 
he  did  so  Steven  Dorian  and  the  detective  seemed 
to  watch  his  face  with  the  keenest  eagerness.  .  .  . 

My  thoughts  flew  to  Ada,  then.  All  was  over, 
now.  She  must  be  told.  I  wanted  to  tell  her 
before  others  could.  It  was  best  that  way.  I 
think  my  steps  never  once  hesitated  as  I  walked 
toward  the  cottage.  I  ascended  the  veranda ;  the 
front  door  was  kept  closed  in  this  chilly  weather. 
I  rang  the  bell.  A  moment  afterward  Ada  ap 
peared  in  the  hall.  I  saw  her  through  the  glass 
panes  of  the  door.  My  heart  gave  a  great  leap. 
I  forgot  my  own  sorrow,  so  thrilled  was  I  with 
pity  at  what  she  must  soon  be  called  upon  to 
hear. 

We  passed  together  into  the  sitting-room,  with 
its  well-remembered  appointments.  A  separate 
farewell  seemed  to  breathe  to  me  from  each  one. 
I  had  taken  her  hand,  and  as  I  moved  along  the 
hall  with  her,  still  holding  it,  I  heard,  her  say  that 
ni3r  own  hand  was  icy-cold.  But  I  did  not  answer 
her  until  we  were  seated  side  by  side.  Then  I 
said: 

"  Oh,  Ada,  better  if  it  were  the  coldness  of 
death ! " 

She  grew  pale.  "  Otho,''  she  murmured,  "  what 
do  you  mean  ?  Tell  me.  Tell  me  at  once !  " 


388  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

"  You  will  loathe  me  when  I  have  told  you. 
And  yet  it  must  be  told." 

"  Nothing  would  ever  make  me  loathe  you ! " 
she  broke  forth,  passionately,  searching  my  face 
with  her  alarmed  eyes. 

"Nothing?"  I  repeated.  "Oh,  Ada,  think  I 
If  it  only  were  so!  But  when  you  have  heard, 
you  —  you  will  feel  all  the  love  die  in  your  breast, 
and  contempt,  if  not  hate,  will  take  its  place  ! " 

"  When  I  have  heard,  Otho  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Listen."  ...  I  dropped  my  face,  then, 
and  told  her.  I  no  longer  held  her  hand.  I  was 
composed  enough,  at  first,  but  gradually  voice  and 
frame  began  alike  to  tremble.  Yet  I  did  not  sup 
press  a  single  wretched  incident.  The  narration 
more  than  once  cost  me  a  fearful  effort ;  but  I 
persevered  until  all  had  been  spoken.  Then,  amid 
the  new  silence,  I  raised  my  head  and  looked  at 
her. 

She  sat  quite  rigid  and  colorless,  staring  at  me. 
Except  for  the  horror  in  her  eyes  there  was  no 
evidence  that  she  lived  at  all.  I  seized  one  of  her 
hands  and  pressed  it  to  my  lips,  while  my  tears  fell 
upon  it. 

"  Oh,  my  love,"  I  moaned,  "  my  lost  love !  Give 
me  one  word  — just  one,  Ada,  if  it  is  only  '  good- 
by'!" 

Her  lips  suddenly  tightened,  then  relaxed,  and 
a  deep  sob  broke  from  them.  In  another  instant 
she  had  thrown  both  arms  about  my  neck. 


TIIE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  389 

"Whatever  you  have  done,"  she  cried,  "you 
are  still  my  Otho ! "  And  then,  while  she  yet 
clung  to  me,  her  tears,  for  a  little  time,  rushed  in 
torrents. 

"  Bless  you,  my  darling,"  I  said.  "  I  did  doubt 
you.  You  were  once  so  proud,  you  know,  Ada. 
And  even  now  I  should  not  blame  you  if  you 
changed.  Many  a  woman's  heart  would  change. 
The  crime  had  no  excuse  —  none.  Such  crimes 
never  can  have.  .  .  And  it  is  so  bitter  a  thought 
to  me  now  that  I  shall  drag  you  down  with 
myself  into  disgrace  and  infamy !  But  if  you 
repulsed  me  from  this  hour  —  if  you  declared 
yourself  alienated,  disgusted,  outraged  by  the  deed 
I  have  done  —  if  you  cast  me  off  and  snapped 
with  one  wrench  the  ties  that  love  and  time 
have  wrought  between  us,  then  the  world,  while 
it  could  have  no  reproach  for  this  desertion,  would 
acquit  you  of  all  sympathy  with  a  man  so  de 
graded  as  I.  In  that  way  you  would  escape  all 
odium,  and  "  — 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  escape  it !  "  she  interrupted, 
struggling  with  her  tears  and  clinging  yet  closer 
to  my  neck.  "  I  wish  that  I  could  only  take  it  all 
upon  myself!  I  love  you,  I  love  you  —  that  is 
enough!  Do  not  speak  of  snapping  the  ties  be 
tween  us!  Your  misfortune,  your  misery,  your 
guilt,  strengthens  those  ties,  Otho !  It  makes 
them  like  iron !  " 

She  withdrew  her  arms  from  me.     I  perceived 


390  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

in  another  moment  that  she  was  striving  to  be 
more  composed.  I  read  her  thoughts,  now,  as  well 
as  if  her  quivering  voice  had  not  immediately 
revealed  them. 

"  But  Casimir,  as  you  say,  has  gone  mad.  Even 
if  they  find  the  body  there,  his  testimony  will  not 
be  believed  against  you.  And  —  and  there  were 
no  other  real  witnesses,  Otho.  You  can  deny  it 
all.  You  must !  In  that  way  it  will  not  be  —  37ou 
know  what  I  mean  —  the  very  worst !  " 

"It  will  be  death  for  me,  I  think,"  was  my 
answer.  "  Death  on  the  scaffold." 

"  No,  no  I  "  She  caught  both  my  hands.  "  It 
shall  not  be !  So  much  will  depend  upon  your 
self.  You  must  be  calm  —  and  I  must  be  calm  as 
well.  We  —  we  must  laugh  at  them  when  the 
accusation  comes.  Your  previous  record  is  so  fine, 
so  spotless.  They  can  suspect  what  they  will,  but 
they  cannot  prove." 

I  shook  my  head  drearily.  "  I  am  beyond  this 
hope,"  I  said.  "  The  ignominy  of  such  suspicion 
would  be  worse  than  that  of  death.  Death  is  an 
end  .  .  .  but  the  other  would  be  a  long,  doleful 
continuance ! " 

"You  think  so  now!"  she  cried,  with  a  sort  of 
wail  in  her  voice.  "  But  will  my  undying  love, 
my  ceaseless  companionship,  not  soften  and  miti 
gate  your  future  pain?  Remember  that  I  shall 
always  be  near  you,  unswerving,  untiring  in  my 
offices  of  comfort.  Oh,  Otho,  for  my  sake  if  not 
for  your  own,  fight,  fight  to  the  very  last ! " 


THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  391 

I  looked  at  her  with  surprise.  Every  trace  of 
her  recent  tearfulness  had  vanished.  A  color  had 
come  to  her  cheek,  a  sparkle  to  her  eye.  She  was 
so  strong,  now,  and  so  beautiful  in  her  strength ! 

I  caught  her  in  my  arms.  "  Be  it  as  you  say," 
I  responded.  "I  will  fight  —  for  your  sake,  and 
for  the  priceless  reward  you  offer!  But  it  will 
be  a  terrible  battle,  and  if  I  come  forth  from  it 
with  my  life,  the  wounds  will  have  maimed  and 
crippled  me  for  all  time." 

She  kissed  me  on  the  lips.  There  was  a  wild 
gladness  in  her  look.  "  No  !  "  she  cried,  "  for  I 
will  heal  your  wounds !  I  can  and  I  will !  " 

I  answered  her  kiss.  "  God  has  not  been  un 
kind  to  me,  after  all,"  I  whispered.  "  He  lets 
this  moment  measure  and  unveil  your  love,  in  its 
glory,  its  courage,  its  sweetness,  its  nobility,  its 
power ! " 

Just  then  we  heard  a  sound  of  steps  on  the 
veranda  outside.  I  knew  what  the  sound  meant. 

"  They  have  c.ome,"  I  said.  "  They  have  come 
to  take  me." 

"VVe  both  rose,  as  if  by  one  impulse.  We  were 
locked  in  one  another's  arms.  The  next  instant 
we  heard  the  bell  of  the  front  entrance  sharply 
ring ;  then  a  heavy  knock  on  the  panels  of  the 
door  followed  it. 

"  Remember  !  "  said  Ada.  Her  voice  was  firm 
and  tranquil.  "  They  come  with  a  madman  as 
your  accuser.  .  .  Remember  —  and  promise  ! '' 


392  THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD. 

My  voice,  as  I  responded,  was  no  less  firm  than 
hers. 

"  I  do  remember  —  and  I  do  promise  !  " 

The  knock  was  repeated,  heavier,  louder  than 
before.  Ada  still  clung  to  me.  We  heard  voices 
on  the  veranda  as  of  people  speaking  together. 

"You  —  you  will  fight  to  live,"  she  persisted, 
"  for  my  sake.  You  swear  it,  Otho  ?  " 

"  For  your  sake,"  I  answered,  "  I  will  do  all 
that  lies  in  human  power.  I  swear  it." 


TUE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  393 


CONCLUSION. 

WHAT  more  now  remains  for  me  to  tell  ?  Did 
not  the  whole  country  ring  for  weeks  with  the 
tale  of  my  agonizing  trial  as  the  suspected  mur 
derer  of  Foulke  Dorian  ?  But  I  kept  my  word  to 
Ada ;  I  fought  for  my  life.  At  times  during  the 
trial,  as  so  many  know,  the  noose  seemed  tighten 
ing  about  my  neck.  Ada,  brave  and  almost  pre- 
ternaturally  calm,  was  at  my  side  throughout,  and 
Mrs.  Dorian,  passionately  believing  in  my  inno 
cence,  remained  there  as  well.  Ada's  support  was 
approved  by  her  dying  father,  whose  deep  pity  her 
own  anguish  had  aroused.  Steven  Dorian,  aided 
by  the  most  brilliant  and  capable  lawyers  whom 
money  could  command,  was  fierce  in  his  efforts  for 
my  condemnation.  But  Casimir  had  been  my 
accuser,  and  Casimir's  malady,  at  the  time  when 
the  trial  took  place,  had  assumed  so  violent  a  form 
that  he  could  not  appear  in  court.  Even  if  he  had 
appeared  there,  his  evidence  would  have  gone  for 
nothing. 

There  was  that  one  great  gap  in  the  testimony. 
Nothing  could  bridge  it  except  suspicion,  and 
suspicion,  however  strong,  is  not  proof.  At  last 
the  misery  ended,  and  I  was  acquitted. 


394  THE  CONFESSIONS   OF  CLAUD. 

But  what  need  even  to  glance  at  these  details, 
so  familiar  to  thousands  ? 

Immediately  after  the  trial  ended,  Ada  and  I 
were  married  with  the  utmost  privacy.  Colonel 
Gramercey  breathed  his  last  two  days  after  our 
marriage.  And  then  my  wife,  myself  and  Mrs. 
Dorian  went  abroad. 

I  have  remained  in  my  beloved  Switzerland  ever 
since.  My  life  has  been  one  of  the  most  absolute 
retirement  from  the  world.  Mrs.  Dorian  has  often 
left  me,  travelling  about  Europe.  Ada  has  never 
left  me.  I  have  always  known  that  men  and 
women  at  large  scarcely  hold  a  doubt  of  my  guilt. 
But  between  me  and  their  scorn  has  ever  risen  the 
angelic  devotion  of  my  wife.  I  will  touch  no 
further  upon  that  subject ;  its  sanctity  seems  to 
forbid  any  save  this  briefly  reverent  mention.  .  . 

No  children  have  been  born  to  us.  This  was 
far  best.  I  am  thankful  for  it. 

I  have  written  these  confessions  carefully,  slow 
ly,  amid  the  long  leisure  of  my  seclusion.  Per 
haps  when  I  am  dead,  my  wife,  if  she  still  lives, 
will  give  them  to  the  world.  In  any  case,  I  shall 
shortly  place  them  within  her  keeping,  to  preserve 
or  destroy  hereafter,  as  she  thinks  best. 

That  is  all.  My  story  has  been  told.  Many  will 
judge  me,  should  these  memoirs  ever  be  made  pub 
lic.  But  of  all  who  read  them  who  shall  dare  to 
say  (whether  his  verdict  prove  harsh  or  merciful) 
that  he  has  judged  aright  ? 


THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD.  395 

And  now  only  one  word  more.  My  wife  has 
never  for  an  instant  caused  me  to  regret  the  prom 
ise  I  gave  her  of  striving  to  live.  Each  new  day 
that  dawns  for  us,  in  our  quiet  home,  her  tender 
and  patient  look  seems  to  whisper :  "  Thank  God 
that  you  are  spared  me,  Otho  —  no  matter  at  what 
cost!" 


|UTHEHN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAJA'T 


A     000032811 


